Samson and Delilah
by Missi Marie
Summary: AU. Peeta is picked for the Reaping. His fellow tribute, Madge. Their mentors, Haymitch Abernathy... and Katniss Everdeen, the only female Victor from District 12.
1. Chapter 1

**Author**: Missi Marie  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> AU  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peeta, Katniss, Madge  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Peeta is picked for the Reaping. His fellow tribute, Madge. Their mentors, Haymitch Abernathy... and Katniss Everdeen, the only female Victor from District 12. It is the Quarter Quell, _To remind us that even the most experienced reinforcements cannot help us..._  
><strong>Author Notes:<strong> So, the chapters are on the short side right now, but I've got a lot written for them on the whole. Just bear with me and I'll churn them out when I can.

CHAPTER 1: COAL BLACK HAIR

There was something truly and utterly disturbing about his life. The way something horrible and terrifying makes you laugh in uncontrollable hysterics instead of the all-consuming fear that paralyzes you. The thing he wanted most—more than anything in his life—was given to him... for the small cost of the thing he wished would never happen.

He finally got the chance to talk to Katniss Everdeen...

...the day his name was pulled from the glass bowl at the Reaping.

He hadn't been paying attention. Why should he really? His name had been placed in the bowl a mere six times. Compared to many of the Seam kids, he was practically in the clear. Of course, this sort of comfort didn't offer much and even with the odds _in his favor_ he should have known that it was just as possible for his name to get pulled out of that glass bowl as anyone else's. After Primrose Everdeen, everyone was reminded of that.

Even so, his focus had been snatched early on by the deep, faded red of Katniss' dress as she walked onto the stage with Effie Trinket and Haymitch Abernathy. It was a modest dress with a square cut neck and long sleeves that were tight at the wrists with little brass buttons in a four-button line. The dress got tighter at her waist, but even with the wealth of a Victor, she was still too slim, her ribs showing through the fabric. It dropped after her hips into long folds of fabric that hit past her knees. She hadn't bothered with little girl shoes or dainty party shoes. Her boots were fine enough in her opinion and she wore them comfortably, despite what was probably a big mistake in terms of fashion.

There was a touch of gold pinned above her left breast. Her token from her Games. She stroked it as the first name was called.

Marguerite Undersee.

Peeta knew her. Everyone knew her. She was the mayor's daughter and had her name in that bowl as few times as Peeta's own. The odds actually _had_ been in her favor, yet still she had to march forward onto the stage and stare into the crowd with an ashen face that made her hair look like lengths of liquid gold too hot for handling.

Katniss knew her, too. Madge had been the one to give her the pin that she now stroked.

The pain in her eyes was flickering, muted down by cameras and bright lights and the terrible familiarity of doing this all before. She didn't get up to hug the girl, didn't offer a show of sympathy or even understanding. No, Katniss only sat there stroking that gold pin, because ultimately, there was nothing she could do.

So when Peeta's name was drawn and announced to a crowd that murmured of the strangeness of two Merchant children names being called, it was odd to see pain flicker in Katniss' eyes a second time. Pain that lingered and etched a frown in her face as her body stiffened.

They were not friends. Nothing was between them besides seventeen years of living in the same district. Words did not pass freely amongst them, smiles were not offered openly... there was nothing save a few vivid memories in their childhood that Peeta could not forget.

Things Katniss probably didn't even notice, much less remember.

He didn't have an answer for the panic that seemed to swell inside her, and it wasn't as though he could ask about it. All he could do was shuffle one leaden foot in front of the other and pray that he made it onto the stage without crumbling beneath the weight of death that settled upon his shoulders.

Yes, now he would finally get to talk to Katniss Everdeen.

She was watching him, everyone was watching him go up onto the stage. Because no one was going to volunteer for him or for Madge. Their futures were sealed with the Reaping. He saw his father in the crowd, sorrow clear as day on his face, standing next to Peeta's mother. There was pain in her expression, but it was mixed with other things, like a grocery list that included milk, bread, butter, and chocolate truffles. Maybe they could all be purchased at the same place, but putting them on that list made them all of equal importance.

To his mother, Peeta's imminent death was just as important as reworking the schedule with him gone, of ordering the necessary supplies to make up for what was used for the 'celebration' that went with the reaping, of wondering whether they could afford to not work the single hour he was going to have before leaving District 12 for what was probably forever.

She didn't mean to be cruel, she just didn't know how not to be.

Peeta reached the stage, made it up the steps, and shook Madge's hand. Then they stood apart, because no two tributes from Twelve would ever make a show of solidarity again. From this moment on, they couldn't really be friends, even if they were.

There was no applause, Twelve had ceased that 'tradition' the day Katniss Everdeen stood upon the stage, braver than any tribute had ever been.

The crowd was silent as Effie Trinket adjusted her blue wig and squeaked out her excitement for the Quarter Quell. Peeta tuned her out, distracted by the sense of Katniss' eyes burning into his back. He didn't know for sure that she was staring at him... but he felt that she was.

Why was it only _now_ that she could stare at him?

They had spoken before. Or at least, Peeta had _attempted_ to speak to her once after her Hunger Games victory. What he had been planning on telling her was... he had no idea what it was. He just wanted to offer her something, a hand extended in friendship and care, but he couldn't think of anything. So when she answered the door with a haunted look on her face, hair hanging in limp, unwashed clumps, gray eyes staring out on the verge of madness, he couldn't get a word out.

She looked terrible. She looked beautiful. She looked on the verge of death.

So he did the only thing he could think of. He offered her the loaf of bread in his hands and then turned and walked away. After that, still no words passed between them, but something had changed. Katniss had returned to the world of the living, spreading around the wealth that came with being a Victor. Her family moved in with her and while that was probably the real reason for the change, Peeta couldn't help the butterflies in his stomach that told him it was the bread.

She was still alive then.

…

They were escorted into the Justice Building, splitting in two directions to be left alone in separate rooms while their families were permitted visitation for the next hour. Peeta waited several moments before his father entered the room, face pale and drawn. His mother came in next, with his brothers behind him. His father opened his mouth, prepared to say something, but seemed to lose the words at the last moment. Instead, he just shook his head and hugged his son.

Peeta knew the hug was an "I love you, son," "do your best," and "come home." Unrealistic expectations. Peeta was glad his father hadn't been able to voice them out loud, it gave Peeta the chance to escape making promises he couldn't keep.

His mother sat beside him, a frown on her face. "The bakery will be fine."

Maybe it was meant to be comforting—in a way, it even was, to know that his absence would go mostly unnoticed—but he couldn't help the wish that she would, just this once, tell him that she would miss him.

His brothers offered words of encouragement and hugs for luck. A couple of kids from his school came when his family left, and then it seemed he would be alone for the last ten minutes. Until the door opened one last time and a pair of tiny feet escorted a tiny girl into the room.

Primrose Everdeen was blonde like her mother, with a fairer skin than her sister, and bright hopeful eyes.

"I like your cookies," she told him and gave him a hug. "My sister will bring you home."

When she left, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles, because she had meant what she said about Katniss, even if he didn't think _anyone_ could bring him home anymore.

…

Peeta had never actually traveled by train before. No one had, really. It was a _privilege _offered only to Victors and Tributes and District 12 was hardly known for its returning tributes. So the only ones from home who had been on the train before were Haymitch, who was currently drunk off his ass and making inappropriate moves towards Effie, and Katniss.

She was sitting in a chair, staring out the window as the outside flashed by them in a blur. Peeta couldn't tell if she was really engrossed with the outside world or if she was just too tired of dealing with the inside one.

Madge was at the table were Effie was ignoring Haymitch to tell the girl that she was "the prettiest little thing District 12 had ever given to the Capitol!" Madge was smiling politely, but didn't seem to be paying close attention, no doubt distracted by her very obvious mortality. Originally, Peeta had been sitting next to Madge, listening to Effie rave about finally getting _two_ pretty candidates with such _wonderful_ manners and how she hadn't seen such lovely contestants since that young _Gale_ who had been just _gorgeous_...

At the mention of the dead tribute, Peeta had to get up. Because he wanted to tell Effie that Gale hadn't been half as gorgeous as Katniss. That even Madge—her blonde hair and fair skin, her feminine curves—couldn't compare to the strength Katniss had inside her.

And he had a feeling that blurting all of that to the entire car was a very poor idea.

So he got up and moved to sit opposite Katniss. He mimicked her, turning his head to look out the window, but he wasn't watching the scenery. Instead, his eyes were focused on the reflection of her blank face in the clear glass.

She had no idea what she did to him.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Let me know what you think!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks for those of you who are already reading! It makes me super happy!_  
><em>And to tipsyapple, Thanks for reviewing! Yay! I'm glad you like the idea behind it and hope that it meets your expectations. :)<em>

CHAPTER 2: CUT OFF MY HAIR

It was only a day into the train ride and Haymitch was already at the bottom of a bottle, spouting obscenities. Effie was sniffling indignantly and Katniss was staring at him with hard, murderous eyes.

"Maybe you should take it easy on the drink, Haymitch," she warned.

His response came in the form of a large belch that had Effie squealing like a strange, doll-faced pig. It might have been funny, if the entire thing wasn't.

And it definitely wasn't. Because Haymitch was one of their mentors. He was there to guide them, to _help_ them _stay alive_ and how the hell was he going to do that if he was so far down the neck of a bottle that he was choking on liquor?

They still had Katniss, Peeta reminded himself with little comfort. Although comparatively, Katniss was inevitably a far better mentor than Haymitch—which wasn't hard to do—the fact was, she probably wouldn't do Peeta any good. Because he knew, just as surely Madge did, that they were going to be trained separately. He couldn't say whether or not this was how the other districts did it. If they split up their tributes from the start and handed them off to one mentor, maybe drawing straws for the one with a better chance to win. It was difficult to say when all Peeta had ever seen of how things were done in other districts revolved around the brutality in the Games.

And no one was particularly interested in sharing strategies when it came to that.

But that was how District Twelve did things. Ever since the first year Katniss was a mentor, she and Haymitch had very clearly divided up their tributes and set very different strategies. Not in the four years since Katniss' Game had there been a Twelve victor, but that didn't mean what they were doing was worse than what had been going on before.

It wasn't like Twelve had ever been known for winning.

Still, this inevitable division between Peeta and Madge was going to put someone at a very serious disadvantage, and he had the sinking suspicion it would be him. Because Madge was one of the few people left that Katniss had a fondness for. They were tentative friends at best, but Katniss still wore the pin that Madge had given her as a token for the Games, and Peeta had seen the way she was stroking it as the names were called.

She wouldn't choose him.

Peeta didn't want Madge to die. She had always been a nice girl and he even considered them friends. But he didn't want to have to die for her. He didn't want to _die_. Not like this. Alone, terrified in the Games...

But he didn't have a choice, no say in the matter. He didn't even have a say who would be the one trying to save his life...

This train ride was all he was going to get with Katniss Everdeen and it twisted his heart in unexplainable ways.

…

They arrived at the Capitol only to be whisked away in silence before any Capitol citizens can get a good look at them. Only Effie Trinket is allowed to speak to the news bugs that are buzzing to get the scoop on the new tributes. She beams with pride, gushing over the beauty of the newest District Twelve selections. There are only a few cameras around, most far more interested in the other Districts, but those that are there are far more interested in getting a shot of the Victors than the newest tributes. For the last four years, that's been happening. Ever since Katniss Everdeen volunteered.

She put Twelve on the map, and despite not having a victor since her, the crowd had yet to forget her.

All of this Peeta noticed as he was being lead underground by a couple of Capitol Peacekeepers, Haymitch and Katniss walking just behind he and Madge.

When they reached the remake center, once again they were split off in different directions, Peacekeepers escorting both of them. Haymitch and Katniss didn't follow, being lead down a third hallway and disappearing from view.

_Do what your stylists tell you_, Katniss had told both he and Madge very seriously. Peeta couldn't fathom why _that_ of all things was so important, but he would take any advice offered. He knew he didn't have any other chance.

Even so, when he was told to strip down to nothing but his skin by three strangely color, Capitol-accented strangers... well, he was a little hesitant. But he did as he was told just the same.

Which was how he winded up being scrubbed clean of the coal and grime of District 12 while listening to the happy chirping of his bizarre stylists. His face was shaved clean, a burning, sticky liquid smothered on top of the raw skin. His hair was washed, trimmed, and plastered with goop. His teeth were cleaned and stripped of stains until he thought they might glow in the dark.

But at least nothing was dyed. He wasn't covered in strange colors or make-up or anything really. Peeta was just Peeta. A lot _cleaner_ version of Peeta.

When the leg work had been done and he was deemed "presentable" a young woman with long, aqua-colored hair entered the room, looking as though she might be some sparkling mermaid that his father had whispered stories of at night.

According to said stories, mermaids were carnivorous...

And apparently could sense fear, because she raised one carefully drawn aqua eyebrow at him, before taking pity and offering a smile.

"I'm Portia," she told him in that strange Capitol accent. Her voice was sweet, but he didn't trust it any more than the others. "I'm your stylist."

Peeta smiled bright against the tightness in his chest and the raw of his cheeks. "I'm Peeta."

"I know," she told him, coming to stand behind him, hands on his shoulders, so that they could stare at his reflection together. "You're an attractive boy."

And cue discomfort, although he smiled so it didn't show. "Thank you. That's a very generous thing to say."

_Do what your stylists tell you._

Portia smiled mischievously at him and he had the feeling that she was all too aware of what Katniss' first piece of advice had been. Smile still in place, she moved away from him towards the back of the room. He watched her reflection in the mirror. She was looking through a long, silver rack that held various colors of material that all looked to be made of shimmering water.

"I can tell already," Portia told him, while rifling through a rack of silky material. "You're going to be a favorite."

…

Four years ago, two tributes from District 12 made an entrance that no one would ever forget. Lighting in a blaze of glory, they burned like fireballs in their chariot, smiling and waving and throwing kisses to the crowd. There was no coal dust, no nakedness, no awkward mining gear and headlamps. There was only fire and breathtaking beauty that lit up every screen in the Colosseum.

Tonight, they would not go out as living fireballs, for which Peeta was at least partially grateful. He wasn't sure how he felt about dying before he even reached his room at the Capitol...

Instead, he was dressed in a sharp, black suit that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat that was not his. Everything on him was black. From his formal blazer to his shiny shoes. Only his face had smears of color on it, hues of gold and bronze that was darker than his normally pale features and faded up into his gelled hair. Beside him, Madge wore something similar—though not identical—a dress, all black, that went to her toes which were hidden in shiny black heels that gave her enough height to hit Peeta's shoulders. Her pale features were covered in the same shimmery gold as his.

He offered her his hand to help her into the black chariot being drawn by black horses, but their hands did not linger. Twelve tributes would never hold hands for the Opening Ceremonies again.

Ahead of them eleven chariots went first. Most adorned in flashy, bright colors with tributes covered head to toe in sparkling, dazzling make-ups—including District Four whose female tribute could have been Portia's twin. The pairs waved at the crowd trying to win favor, but ignoring each other.

Finally, their own chariot moved and Peeta thought he might be sick. He was unsteady, terrified, wishing more than anything that this was all a nightmare, but he knew it wasn't.

There would be no waking up from this.

He glanced back looking for Portia, praying she knew what she was doing, and instead caught sight of Katniss. She looked... sad and maybe a little angry, but when her eyes met his, she seemed to fill with determination. The gray pools hardened and she nodded at him, giving him the courage to break their locked gazes and move forward.

He could do this. He _had _to do this.

When they entered the fastness of the arena, trailing behind the fruit-themed chariot of Eleven (which would have been funny under any other circumstances), Peeta put on his brightest smile just like Portia told him to and lifted his hand in a wave. As soon as he did he noticed it. His completely black suit had begun to glow. Cracks of bright read pulsated through the material of his sleeves and reflected off his face, making it seem as though he were living, flaming rock. A quick glance confirmed that Madge's long-sleeved, neck to toe dress was doing the same.

They were the very heart of the earth, and once again, the crowd cheered for District Twelve.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Don't worry guys, we'll get to the good stuff soon! Just hang in there with me :)_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: If anyone was wondering, my chapter titles are coming from Samson and Delilah by Shirley Manson because it is a frickin' AWESOME song and it reminds me of Katniss. x)_

_Review Replies:  
><strong>GoddessofSouls:<strong> Actually, it's a little more complicated than that. Rue will come up later, so I won't spoil it for you. x) But I'm glad you're enjoying and thanks so much for the review!  
><strong>Bree:<strong> Well, it's less that he's ignoring her, and more that they're both in shock so they're not really interacting. As for the whole not holding her hand thing, well, there's a reason for that, too. Madge doesn't have a huge roll (at least, not in what I have written, though we'll see since they story isn't finished yet), but she definitely has an important part and there should be more interaction between them. So yeah, thanks supermuch for the review!  
><strong>KatnissMellark:<strong> Squee! Thank you so much! :) I love getting compliments on style since that's a real compliment to me, not just the awesometastical Hunger Games novels (which I obviously do not own xP) and I'll try to update frequently! (I can do so now since I have so much written at the moment) Thanks again!**  
>micmic022:<strong> Thanks for reading! Hope you stick around :)  
><strong>iam97:<strong> Thanks so much! Glad to have you on board!_

CHAPTER 3: SAMSON AND THE LION

"We're going to train you separately," was the first thing out of Katniss' mouth that morning. Before sleep was rubbed from eyes or yawns were finished or breakfast even started, she was thinking of the Games.

Four years ago, a young, scared Katniss had stood as ferocious as a lion, clasping the hand of a fifteen-year-old boy that was her male Tribute. They were the first and only tributes to ever appear as a team. After their heart-wrenching story, no one could bear to see the hands of tributes gripped in solidarity again.

It was no surprise they would be trained separately.

Still, Peeta frowned, not liking how quickly things were going. He wanted more... _moments_ with Katniss. He felt like he hadn't gotten any at all yet and already he and Madge were being separated in what surely would be teams that included Madge and Katniss, then Haymitch and—

"Peeta," she addressed him brusquely. "We'd better get started." With gray eyes that didn't water or show any sort of sadness, she focused on Madge. With a curt nod, Katniss turned away, taking quick steps towards an adjoining room where she and _Peeta_, not Madge, would eat breakfast and discuss strategy.

With an irritated sound, Katniss huffed, "Are you coming, kid? Or am I going to have to drag you by your baby-fluff?"

Peeta turned and saw her waiting at the door in what was almost anger. He didn't understand. If she didn't want him, why didn't she pick Madge...?

With a quick glance to Madge, who offered a small smile which he only barely managed to return, he got up from the table and followed Katniss into the next room. One final look back was directed at Haymitch who was slumped in his chair, head lolled back, and snoring loudly. Madge was staring at him, too, and there was desperation in her eyes...

…

In the adjoining room, Katniss was standing off to the side speaking with Cinna, Madge's lead stylist. A recollection of Katniss riding across the stage in a chariot, on fire and smiling at the crowd so dazzling that no one could take their eyes off of her, reminded Peeta that Cinna had been Katniss' stylist, too.

They were speaking furtively, in low tones, that abruptly stopped once Cinna realized Peeta was in the room. With an affectionate hug for Katniss and a small wave at Peeta, Cinna left the room.

Katniss sat at the table and offered no explanation. Peeta decided not to ask for one.

For several minutes, there was no speaking. Peeta ate ravenously, thankful Effie Trinket was busy adoring Madge instead of him. Katniss ate a little here and there, but was far more sparing than he. Which half made sense. After all, _she_ wasn't going into the Games.

Not again, anyway.

When he slowed to a manageable pace where he could actually start tasting the food he was shoveling into his mouth, Katniss began to speak.

"We're going to have to come up with a strategy," she told him, picking at a crescent roll on her plate. It was familiar, but definitely not something they sold in Twelve. "Go through your skills and figure out the best way to use them."

He frowned; he had no skills.

"Can't be sure what the arena will be," she continued, ignoring the dejection evident on his face. "But they'll give you something to work with, they always do. It's too boring when they don't."

She spoke so matter-of-factly, hardly a care beyond what had become her "business." It was his mother talking cakes. She had never liked her job either.

"So pay attention at training today. Take a good, hard look at what the stations are, 'cause they're going to give you clues about the arena. Effie'll take care of your star power—" she was talking about the interview stage. "—and Haymitch will go over what you're going to say, though I doubt you'll need much help. Either way he'll be more use than I will at that."

She kept going, telling him what to expect in a rapid-fire voice that left no room for arguments or questions. She explained that she would help him with skills, training, go over strategy and what to show the Game Makers when it was time for his personal skills test. She would be there every step of the way, up until the final day. From there, she would be on the outside looking in, helping him to get sponsors and sending what she could.

"Just understand that it's gotta be sparingly," she said seriously. "I'm not just going to send you water, even if you've got sponsors lined up. You've gotta do this on your own, because the longer you're in the Game, the more expensive stuff gets. If you can last, then I can get you something more useful in the long run. So think smart. Smart gets you a helluva lot farther than relying on sponsors does."

It was endearing that she was planning that far ahead, as though he somehow had a chance. He was sure she had absolutely no idea how much that sentiment meant to him.

She paused in her rant, staring at him, studying him. The urge to squirm beneath her scrutiny was strong and he struggled not to fidget. His appetite finally dropped and he stopped eating.

"Do you want allies?" she finally asked, uncertain about something, the confusion written on her young face.

Peeta shrugged. He hadn't thought this far yet. It was only breakfast on the first day, he didn't even know any tributes beyond Madge and himself.

"I don't know," he told her honestly. "I think me and Madge might—"

But she cut him off with a scowl, maybe he had known she would. "Forget Madge, you're not allying with her."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she just forged ahead.

"We can't ally you with anyone who you might get attached to." He thought of Gale, of the little whisp of a girl with a spear through her chest. "Besides, they're usually the weakest links anyway. If you're going to ally with weak links, you might as well not ally yourself at all. There's something to be said for going it alone."

He swallowed hard, feeling like some of his breakfast was lodged in his throat or at least planning a return trip up. She was being so cold, so emotionless, so uncaring about his life. About Madge's life. And while he knew that she couldn't care about every tribute whose name was announced at the Reaping, just to watch them die every year, he couldn't help the heavy desire that she care because it was _him_.

But she never would. Gale Hawthorne announced his undying love for her on national television for all of Panem to witness. And she had said nothing. He told her again in the Games, that he had loved her since that day in the Hob, but still she hadn't responded. Conflict showed on her face, but she never offered him a return of love.

In one of the last days of their Game, he accused her to be unable to love someone.

She didn't cry, didn't yell at him, didn't defend herself. She just looked broken, lost, hopeless. It was enough to make Peeta wish more than anything that he had been the one to enter those Games with her if only to wrap her in his arms and tell her that everything was going to be alright.

Which was exactly what Gale did _not_ do. Angry, he had turned from her and stomped off back to their camp. After several long moments, Katniss finally followed.

That was the last conversation to pass between them before the Tracker Jacker venom warped their entire world. Before Cato's death. Before Katniss' arrow. Before the end of the Games and Katniss' victory.

The last thing that he, the boy who supposedly loved her, said was, _"You'll never love anyone, Katniss. You can't."_

Because of that, Peeta couldn't bring himself to confess his feelings to Katniss, not even during his last days. She would never believe him.

"Maybe we're going about this the wrong way," Peeta finally forced out.

Katniss raised an eyebrow in question, arms folding across her chest. She wasn't necessarily shooting him down, but she was definitely skeptical. He forged ahead.

"Maybe we shouldn't be thinking about... about who would be my weak link," he said. "Maybe we should instead focus our efforts."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously and he wondered if she's figured out where he's going with this. Probably, because she did NOT look pleased.

"I mean, Madge..." he trailed off.

"No," she told him shortly. "Forget it. That's not how it works."

Feeling frustrated—that she won't let him finish, that she won't even bother to see it his way, that she won't take what he wants into consideration—he argued. "Think about it. Everyone's going to expect me to be a bigger target than Madge," she's shaking her head, anger rising. "I can help her to—"

"I said no!" she yelled at him, getting up from her chair and slamming her fists down on the table so hard that the dishes shook. "We set things up like this for a reason, Peeta! We set it up so that we can't do things like that anymore! So that we don't start estimating whose life is worth more, or offer one tribute more favor just because we think they have a better chance of winning! We do this because, damnit, if we have to play, we're not going to lose _everything!_"

Equally angry—because it was safer than being scared, Katniss would respond better to anger—Peeta rose from his own chair so fast that it fell back behind him with a crash."

"I don't understand!" he yelled back, shaking his head. "I thought you and Madge were friends?"

For a long moment, they stared at one another, challenging. They were breathing heavily, adrenaline pumping through their veins, preparing for a fight. It took a long while for Katniss to calm down enough to answer him seriously.

"There are no friends in the Games." She may have been sharing worthwhile wisdom that in a scant few days might just keep him alive... but he wasn't in the Games yet.

She seemed to notice her answer was unsatisfactory.

Sighing, she met his crystal blue eyes with her haunted gray ones and said, "We are. She asked for Haymitch."

Peeta never got the chance to do more than let shock register on his face before Katniss gave him a strained smile that spoke volumes—about pain and betrayal and loss and guilt and brokenness and failure; he couldn't tell which emotion was caused by which person in her life—and said, "Lets get to the training room, kid. Don't want to be late."

She moved away from the table to the elevator and he was left to follow, thinking, _We're the same age, Katniss_.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I have no beta, so I'm sorry if there are lots of mistakes hanging around._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Super tired right now . This is a really short update, but didn't go with the other stuff I have, so yeah. The next one should be longer._

_Review Replies:_

_**XoLovelyWonderXo:** I'm glad you gave the story a chance! I was originally going to use Cinna, but ultimately I decided he was for the girls and Portia went with Peeta, so that decided it for me. Cinna is getting more of a role than I had anticipated though. Thanks for the reviews! :)  
><em>_**KatnissMellark**: Haha, well, I don't know that you'll get a whole lot of Pet fluff, but I'll certainly give you **something**. ;) Anyway, thanks again for reviewing!  
><em>_**Illuminatedillusions: **You'll get a bit of KatCAM, but it'll be farther in and I haven't really decided how much. It's ironic, I hadn't really intended for this to be from Peeta's POV, but here we are. xP Thanks for the review!_

CHAPTER 4: DELILAH'S HANDS

Effie Trinket stood between Peeta and Madge, speaking rapidly about the spectacle that was the Capitol, but it was falling on mostly deaf ears. They had twelve floors to not listen to her as they moved down to the training room. Katniss had squeezed herself into a back corner of the elevator, arms crossed, and looking as she had since this years reaping. Angry with a heavy splash of determination.

Every floor was sectioned off for a different district. The basement below was the training grounds for the tributes. That was where they were currently headed to. Today was the first day of training; Peeta noticed Haymitch was not in the elevator with them.

Effie shooed them affectionately out of the elevator—Peeta didn't have it in him to dislike the strange, shallow woman—before waving and heading back up behind a ding of metal doors.

They stood there for a few moments together, a group of three children, two tributes and a mentor. Finally, Madge offered Peeta a hesitant smile, a glance at Katniss, and then headed off to pick one of the training stations.

She seemed aimless in her choices, looking first at knot-tying, then at the plant station, then one of the weight lifting ones. She didn't seem to have any idea where she was going.

And Haymitch wasn't there to help her.

Peeta looked back at Katniss, planning on asking what they could do to help, but stopping before the words ever left his lips.

Her expression was dark, fixed on Madge.

"Damnit," he heard her mutter under her breath.

"Where's Haymitch?" Peeta asked, drawing her attention. She frowned and shook her head in response.

"C'mon," she told him, surging forward into the training room.

It was neither required nor discouraged for mentors to be present with their tributes during the training. They were permitted to help in any way possible with the exceptions of the individual training scores, the interviews, and the actual Games. Everything else was fair game.

Still, mentors seemed to be about half and half. Some tributes had their mentors there, helping tributes at the stations, some had their mentors merely watching from the sidelines, even chatting amongst themselves. Others, like Madge, had no one there at all beyond their fellow tribute, and Peeta didn't like the feeling that Madge didn't even have that.

He wanted to ask Katniss to train them both, but he knew her response. She wouldn't do it.

"Where do you want to start?" she asked him, glancing around to get a feel of the stations. Her eyes lingered where Madge was sitting cross-legged with a book of plants open on her lap.

"I don't really know," Peeta admitted. He wished he could understand what was going through her head, why it was so impossible to help them both.

…

They had spent hours there. Hours tying knots, practicing with a bow and arrow—Katniss' trademark from her Game—and a sword, which although Peeta had no natural talent for, he could at least wield it steadily. Katniss told him his skill would likely be strength and that it would only get him so far.

"Be smart," she had said, while he tried to follow her on a balance beam for the seventh time in a row. He fell another six times before she had them move on to a station that imitated a cliff face that she told him to climb.

They took a break for lunch, during which Katniss had gone over strategy after strategy until Peeta was left wondering if blowing up the entire arena wasn't just the safest bet...

She probably would have kept going, if an unexpected guest hadn't appeared in the elevator. Cinna did not exit the elevator even when the doors open. He merely stood there, one hand keeping them open, staring at Katniss. With a nod, Katniss got up.

"Eat well. You need to keep your strength up."

Then she gave him a short list of the other stations she wanted him to visit and left. He watched as she entered the elevator and began what seemed to be a casual, friendly, dare he say _intimate_ conversation with Madge's stylist.

Peeta frowned.

She was gone only a moment when he felt the pang of her absence. This was not a fun experience. Training was grueling and exhausting. Getting one foot in front of the other without falling into despair was often a challenge. But spending the day with her kind of made it all worth it. Now that she had left, well, he didn't feel much like doing anything.

What was the point really?

He picked at the bread on his plate, eating only halfheartedly, when he noticed someone sit down across from him. When he glanced up to see who it was, he found Madge sitting hesitantly opposite him. She smiled hesitantly, as though ready to leave quickly should he not return it.

But he did return it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

After that day, Katniss continued to leave with Cinna and Madge would sit to eat with him during lunch. Peeta didn't hide it from Katniss, and she was never happy with it, but she didn't stop him and she still left every day with Cinna.

It was an odd tradeoff that Peeta couldn't quite figure out how he felt about it. But every time it happened, Peeta would make suggestions to Madge. What she should do, what station to go to, how she should play the Games...

Katniss wouldn't be happy, but _someone_ had to help the poor girl. So he never told Katniss, and Katniss didn't bother telling him not to, even though she knew. She had to know, because the looks she gave him every night when she left him just outside the door to his room, she gave him that look that said she knew what he was doing and she was annoyed that he was undermining her hard work.

And that she was maybe, just maybe, the tiniest bit proud of him for doing it.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I don't own anything, in case anyone was curious, and there are some direct quotes from the book in here, so yeah. Also, I'm a little fond of this chapter lol :) Enjoy!_

_Review Replies:  
><em>_**Kari: **Thank you!  
><em>_**iam97:** Thanks for the encouragement! I'm glad you think Peeta's in character, and well, I just feel so bad for Madge. Her life just sucks right now. XP  
><em>_**AriadneO: **Thank you and welcome! I have a lot of the explanation of what happened in the past already written, so I don't want to explain to much yet. Besides, it's fun to guess what's going on. x) I just think it's more entertaining, but don't worry, I promise we'll get some more info down the way._

CHAPTER 5: FINE AND FAIR

"I do the cakes," Peeta admitted a little shyly. "At home. The iced ones, for the bakery."

"Lovely," Katniss muttered sarcastically. "If only you could frost someone to death."

He didn't know why it made him so angry, she hadn't been inaccurate or dishonest in her evaluation of his skill set. Icing cakes _was_ his only skill and it wasn't going to do him _any_ good in the arena. He knew this was true, would have probably pointed it out himself at a different time.

But the anger boiled over anyway.

"Okay!" he yelled at her. "I get it! I _get_ it! I'm screwed, I'm useless, I'm worthless. _I'm dead_. There is nothing I can do that will make me any match against the other tributes. I can't even climb a goddamn _tree_!"

He wasn't clever, like Katniss. Didn't have the skills to survive alone in the woods. Wasn't quiet, cunning, or handy with a weapon. He wasn't trained to survive or to compete. And there wasn't enough time to even attempt to learn. They had been training, practicing. She was doing her best to give him the skills he needed to make it through this alive, and it _still_ wasn't helping. Because he was a lost cause.

Once he was in that arena, he was dead. End of discussion.

But did she really have to throw that back in his face? Couldn't he just have these few moments alone with her without the sarcastic, biting bitterness of a mentor who knew her tribute was as good as chopped liver?

"Excuse me?" she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and narrowing her eyes dangerously. "Did I _say_ you could just _give up_?"

It was a rhetorical question.

"Did I _say_ you could just toss in the towel because you're too chickenshit to put in the effort? Did I _say _you were allowed to _quit_ just because it's the _easy way out_?" By the end she was yelling at him, tossing her hands about wildly, accusation in her every gesture.

"No," she informed him. "I didn't. And if I didn't tell you to do it, _you will not do it_. You don't give up, until I _tell_ you to give up. You don't quit, until I _tell_ you to quit. You don't die, until I tell you to die."

Her face was flushed with anger and adrenaline. She looked like a tiger ready to spring at any moment, baring teeth and claws. Instead, "Drop and give me fifty."

Peeta stared at her blankly.

She stepped closer to him, closer until she was an inch from his chest, staring up into his bright blue eyes. "I _said_, drop and give me fifty." He could smell the berries from breakfast on her breath.

It took him another three seconds to finally register what she was telling him to do.

"Do it now, or you can do it with me sitting on your back."

She was telling him to do _push ups_ and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. But he complied all the same. Getting down on his hands and knees, he stretched out until he was planked on the floor. He went down, and she counted out loud.

"One."

…

When Katniss trained with Peeta she was dressed mostly in modesty. Though tight fitting, her black pants were designed to stretch and move with her as she ran, climbed, and crouched. Her shirt was black as well and cropped just above her navel, revealing skin that was just a little lighter than the dusty tan that the rest of her had; it was a tank top with a modest neckline attached to wide straps on her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back as it always was in a loosely constructed braid that severed to keep most of it out of her face save a few flyaway strands. Her boots were mid-calf and laced up tightly. They looked like they fit perfectly and she moved as though she had spent her whole life in them.

Overall, her work-out gear was designed mostly for practicality, and only a little for show.

But when they were outside the training grounds, anywhere that there might be cameras, her wardrobe changed dramatically. Silky, slinky materials emphasized curves that she barely had. Cuts and slits revealed what seemed to be miles of silky skin. Copper metals accented her dark hair, her tanned skin, even criss-crossed her delicate neck.

Occasionally, when her back was exposed, he could catch a glimpse of something shimmery and gold.

All of it was Capitol designed. They wanted to give the audience that girl from the Games. The Victor from District 12 who blew everyone away. The Girl Who Was On Fire. And they tried to show that with make-up and strange twists in her hair and slinky materials... but they never quite got it in Peeta's mind. They never captured the girl who had the strength, at only thirteen, to step forward and take her little sister's place. They didn't—_couldn't—_show the girl who tried so hard to save her family when they were starving, her friends when they were dying, her district when they were lost.

The Capitol didn't understand hardship. How could they ever expect to embody it?

If anything, their attempts at beautifying Katniss only seemed to make her seem less like the spectacular girl everyone had watched on screens across Panem. The more painted she was, the more her personality seemed to fall away, leaving behind this empty, painted shell.

Peeta felt like he was still watching her twirl like a frivolous little girl on stage for thousands of cooing Capitol idiots until she was too dizzy to stand.

He liked her far more as she was now, dressed as practically as the Capitol would allow, prepared to train with him right down to the last day. He thought back to their conversation earlier (and the soreness in his arms from all the push-ups...) and felt a little swell in his heart. She was trying so hard to keep him alive. And he wanted it, oh, did he want it. To have her care about him... but it was such a stupid thing to want now. Here, at the Games, where he was going to die. If she finally felt something for him and then lost him... Well, he wasn't too keen on that either.

He let out a sigh. Sometimes, life sucked no matter how much he told himself to be grateful that Katniss was only about a foot from him. She had finally taken pity on him and they were taking a break—one of very few she ever allowed them to have—Peeta sitting with his knees slightly bent on the strange, shiny black surface of a platform near the obstacle course where they had been training. Katniss was beside him, legs dangling over the edge.

She was staring at Madge, a look on her face that was riddled with indecision. No, not indecision, but maybe a little _regret_ for the decision already made that she would not take back.

Whatever her qualms with helping Madge, Katniss hardly seemed happy about the whole thing.

…

He was exhausted. Katniss had worked him harder than any other day to date and it had definitely taken a physical toll on his body. She, however, seemed unfazed with energy to spare. She walked ahead as he slumped heavily behind her down the hall towards his room. Just as she had done every night before, she walked him to his door where she would deposit him there and march down the hall, in theory, to her own room.

A flash of Cinna and Katniss standing closely together, speaking furtively flashed through his mind, but he shook it away. If it wasn't Gale, then it wasn't anyone, he told himself. Katniss hated the Capitol too much to truly love anyone from it.

They stopped outside his door. She hesitated.

"Good job," she muttered a little pink on her cheeks. "You did good today."

He had just enough energy to smile at her and reply his thanks. A few slow seconds passed in silence. Finally, she nodded, bit her lip, and turned away. "Night," she muttered, heading down the halls.

Still with a little smile playing on his face, he entered the room and didn't even remember crashing down on the bed and falling into dark oblivion.

But he would remember the dream.

He awoke from it with a hoarse throat and a sweat-covered body. His blonde curls were plastered to his face and he was breathing with difficulty. In only seconds, his door burst open and Katniss appeared in the rectangle of light.

For a moment, they stared at each other. Him breathing hard, her framed by the doorway and light from the hall. She was in her night clothes, a tank top and loose-fitting pants, both colorless. Her hair was an array of messiness, tangled out of its usual braid by a probably fitful sleep.

When he was able to make out the expression on her face, he realized it was one of pity. It took him a second later to realize why she wore it.

He didn't mean to cry. Certainly not in front of _her_. But here he was, trying desperately to hold back tears that despite his efforts rolled steadily down his pale cheeks. She moved into his room, closing the door behind her. Her footsteps were silent and then she stopped in the middle of his room. He waited for the lecture. The one that went along the lines of _don't cry, Peeta. It makes you look weak _or _don't cry, Peeta, or I'll kill you myself _or _Gale never would have cried_. And other such comforting words from his lovely, breathtaking, spectacular, and _completely_ cold mentor Katniss.

The girl who was on fire.

No one would ever forget her.

But the speech never came. The lecture, harsh and entirely correct, seemed to linger only in false memories. Instead, he watched as she stared at him a moment, blank as the cakes before he decorated them. Then she slowly made her way to his bed, sitting on the edge with a sigh that spoke of years she hadn't lived yet.

Some part of him was just glad that she would get the chance to live those years.

"You can cry here, Peeta," she said quietly, softly, in a gentle voice that hinted at the beauty of her singing. "Here. Alone, where there are no cameras, no contestants, no mentors. When you are alone, Peeta, that is when you cry."

And it was like she didn't have the heart to look at him, because she rose off the bed with all intent to leave.

Peeta stopped her.

He wondered if she cried alone. The thought clutched at his chest.

His hand reached out and grabbed her wrist, gripping, perhaps too hard, with shaking fingers. "Please," he whispered in a tight voice, pleading. "Stay with me."

She hesitated. He knew she didn't want to stay, and he couldn't blame her. Dead tributes—those she had mentored, those she had killed—must haunt her nightmares and flash before her open eyes. She didn't need another one.

But he needed her. Katniss Everdeen. The girl who was on fire. The only female Victor from District 12. The only girl he had ever loved.

Maybe she sensed this, maybe she just couldn't leave her tribute in such a wreck. Whatever the reason, she sat back down and let him cling to her wrist as he cried, staring at the blank wall with such intensity as to suggest it had personally attacked her. She never looked at Peeta; he couldn't stop looking at her.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Also, if anyone is interested in betaing for me, I'm not opposed to a little help just so long as you have some experience._


	6. INTERMISSION

_A/N: Yes, this chapter is terribly short, but I will make it up to you by adding a second chapter up! This one's Katniss' POV._

_Review Response:  
><em>_**Nemue:**I'm so glad you're enjoying! I'm getting pretty attached to this universe, so it's pretty cool to hear that other people are as well. And Peeta is so easy to love, ne? Also, hopefully this chapter will help you a little with figuring out Katniss. :) Thanks for the review!  
><em>_**KatnissMellark:**__Aww, it's okay Katniss was there for him! x) It's a big compliment to hear that it made you sad, so yay! Thanks for taking the time to review, it's muchly appreciated!_

INTERMISSION: katCAM

It took him hours to finally return to sleep and when he did, his fingers remained clasped around my wrist. I don't know why I stayed. Why I even barged into his room to begin with.

Just a lingering memory of shutting out the world and curling into a ball of taut nerves that tingled in pain that I could show no one, not even Gale. Just the remembrance of crying alone on that same bed, so much softer, so much nicer, than my own, and wishing for nothing more than to be home once again.

The scream I heard only because I never slept much when I was at the Capitol. Sometimes I thought the real reason for Haymitch's drinking was just so he finally managed to sleep.

I wondered how long it would take me to reach that point. If Haymitch had once been a mentor like me who strove to see at least _one_ tribute make it home, or if he had always been as he was. From the day he returned home, forever changed and deformed into something almost not human.

Certainly the Games could do that.

But I would never know for certain. No one would talk about the year Haymitch won for District 12. And I would never find the courage to ask for the details.

I didn't need them anyway.

Peeta's fitful cries had drawn me to him in a blind panic. It's hard to explain why to anyone who doesn't already know, and for those that already know they don't want to talk about it. But it is because even awake, the screams of long-gone tributes haunted me. Their screams were ghosts that would never leave, their torment something I could never change, never alter, never prevent.

But Peeta was still here, still alive. I could change his outcome. Maybe I wouldn't add his voice to the list of those that had the right to punish me for the rest of my wretched life.

I had no right surviving.

That was why I trained with him, why I pushed him so much harder, and maybe that was why I went into his room that night. To keep one last scream out of my waking nightmares and sleepless evenings.

But I doubted it.

As I stared at him, his blonde curls washed clean of the Capitol concoctions, haphazardly strewn across his face and the eyes that I knew were blue closed, lids lined with the lightest, softest looking lashes I had ever seen... As I watched him work into what was hopefully a peaceful sleep, I knew, this wasn't about my nightmares.

It was about saving the boy with the bread, because I wouldn't get another chance to repay my debt.


	7. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6: JAWBONE

The last thing he wanted was to pick another fight with Katniss. After the previous night something had... changed between them. He wasn't so naïve to think that it was that she had finally realized just how madly in love with him she was, but there was definitely _something_ now. Maybe it was false hope breeding in his desperate heart, but she seemed to consider him as a person now, instead of just a tribute that she was striving to keep alive.

A step in the right direction if one had ever been taken.

He didn't want to disrupt that now that it had begun, but he couldn't help it. Everytime he saw the hurt reflecting in Katniss' eyes as she watched Madge struggle again and again... All he wanted to do was to make that hurt go away. He couldn't make that hurt be _for_ him. He couldn't take back Madge's name being drawn out of that glass bowl. He couldn't make Haymitch a better mentor.

But he could offer Madge a little help. He could give her a better chance to win. He could convince Katniss who was worthier of winning...

"Would it be so bad for Madge to win?" Peeta whispered to her softly.

They had already had this discussion, this argument, and it was obviously tiring her out. She closed her eyes as though it might shut out him and the rest of the world. As though it might be enough to keep her from having to answer his question. But her luck had never been that good and Peeta was unwilling to let it drop.

With a sigh, she shook her head. "I just can't afford to think like that."

"And what if it's what _I_ want?"

Her eyes snapped open, blazing with anger. Apparently, not the right thing to say...

"You want to _die_?" she demanded. "Is that what I get? A tribute who wants to _die_ before he even tries?"

Peeta ran a nervous hand through his blonde curls, the gel feeling weird, but pliable through his fingers. It wasn't like that. Of course, he didn't _want_ to die. He just knew it was more than just a slim possibility, and he didn't want...

"I just think it would be easier," he finally told her around the lump in his throat. "If we all worked together to get _one_ of us home."

"And who makes that decision?"

Peeta frowned. "It's my life. It's my choice."

"Because Madge doesn't get a say, does she?"

Peeta opened his mouth to respond, but closed it almost immediately. He didn't know what to say to that. Surely Madge didn't want to die. And she had a family back home, a mother barely clinging to sanity. She was a sweet, kind girl. Her life was worth more than his... Wasn't it? And even if this was to be done by committee, he was _willing_ to do his best to help her... That made it his choice, right?

Right?

Katniss was still incredibly pissed, shaking her head angrily. "I won't do to Madge what Haymitch and... What _they_ did to _me_, so you're just going to have to suck it up and try until I tell you to stop."

…

The rest of the day was harsh for Peeta. Katniss gave him no reprieve, no breathers. Nothing long enough that he might have time to think once again about self-sacrifice. Or about helping Madge. Or about Katniss' words from earlier.

_What **they** did to **me**._

Which, he was sure, was not an accident. She was trying to keep him busy. They spoke very little—especially considering what little time he got that wasn't spent running laps around the lower gym or up the twelve flights of stairs was spent panting heavily—and every time he thought about trying to start a conversation again, Katniss just made them get up and start it all over again.

Oh yes, she was definitely keeping him busy.

But at least he didn't have any time to worry about the fact that the next day would be their individual scoring. Peeta would go into a room—last save Madge—and perform some amazing feat to convince the Game Makers to give him a decent score so that sponsors could be persuaded to send him things in the arena.

_Important_ things.

Peeta didn't even have time to worry about what _he_ was going to do to impress the Game Makers, much less what Madge was going to do...

…

She didn't talk about Gale Hawthorne, the male tribute from her own Games, often. No one could really blame her; talking about the dead was hard enough when you _didn't_ know them. But it was no secret that years ago, Gale and Katniss had been as close as family.

Now he was dead and she wasn't.

Here, in the context of the Quarter Quell, she spoke of Gale, her dead friend. "Gale..." it hurt her to say his name. The pain was laced in her voice, inextricable from it. "He had a lot of the same skills as I did. I assumed he did the same thing I had."

She hesitated. There was more, a secret. Gale's score had been a measly six. They couldn't have done the same thing...

"I was angry that they weren't paying attention to me," she confessed. "Angry that here I was, about to die for their goddamn _entertainment_ and they couldn't be bothered to even _look_ at me longer than a couple of seconds. So I behaved... _irrationally_. Gale—," she stopped, nearly choking on his name. "_My fellow tribute_ had already gone; everyone had already gone and it was just me, alone in that room with a bunch of half-drunk, frivolous, lazy bastards who didn't seem to understand that _I was going to die_."

Anger saturated her words and Peeta couldn't help but be grateful that there was still enough inside of her to muster up the indignant anger at the unfairness of it all. It gave him hope.

"I shot an arrow at them."

Shock registered on Peeta's face.

She smirked without humor. "Speared the apple in the mouth of their stupid pig. One of the Game Makers fellow over, spilling his wine all over himself. Needless to say, I made an impression."

Peeta remembered her score from the Games. An eleven. And now he knew why.

"Don't do what I did," she told him seriously. "Don't let them see your anger, your resentment. Don't let them get to you. You don't need to be memorable. Just likeable. Just _well enough_. I can get you a sponsor with a _well enough_ score."

…

Katniss dropped Peeta at his door once again. She didn't stay and he couldn't muster up the courage to ask her to do so before she had turned and walked down the hall. He watched her go, disappearing around the corner and to her room.

Desperately, he wanted her back again. If he had been able to change the emotions stirring up inside of him, presumably he would. But it was such that the love he felt for her was so complete, he couldn't even make himself _want_ to change it.

He just wanted the chance to have her know that it was there.

Placing his hand on the door handle, he paused. Beyond that door was a room—all his own—waiting for him to stumble in groggily. To strip and trip into the shower, fumbling with dozens of setting as he struggled to find the mildest, least fruity setting. To collapse heavily, achingly onto a bed that was too comfortable, too inviting to ever allow for proper sleep. To drift off... and dream of Katniss in the arena with him. Of the two of them pitted against each other as opponents. Of her raising an arrow at him. An arrow that would pierce his heart, but wouldn't kill him.

No, it would only make him stop loving her just long enough to be the one to kill her...

It made him terrified to win the Games.

Shaking his head, he stepped back from the door.

"S'matter, kid? 'Fraid of the nightmares?"

Peeta turned his head quickly to his right to face Haymitch. The man was walking relatively straight thanks to the wall his hand was firmly tracing. His other hand clutched a bottle of clear liquid.

His eyes were only a little glassy, only slightly unfocused.

Gray eyes. Like Katniss'. Like Gale's. But Madge's were a bright blue, like Peeta's. The Seam versus the Merchants. And in the end, they were all victims.

Haymitch was almost enough to make Peeta step back to his door and go inside. The man made him degrees of angry, and Peeta was really too damn tired to be angry just then.

Still, he hesitated.

There was a question that was burning the back of his throat still.

"What was the deal you made?" Peeta blurted before he could consider its wisdom. "I mean, the one... with Katniss and..." He trailed off, not even sure why he was asking anymore.

Haymitch barked out a laugh when Peeta mentioned it, startling the boy. "Still pissed at that, is she?" He seemed more amused about it than concerned. "Always did have trouble lettin' things go."

He took a swig of the clear liquid in its clear bottle making Peeta frown. For a moment he let himself worry for Madge. The poor girl had it pretty bad with Haymitch... A tickle of fire hit the back of his throat and he was surprised to discover that it was anger. At Katniss. For abandoning Madge.

"Stupid really," Haymitch slurred. "Damn kid backed out in the end anyway."

Peeta's frown deepened. What had Gale Hawthorne backed out of? What deal would make Katniss forget Madge so completely?

* * *

><p><em>AN: There was another part to this, but I decided it should be part of the next chapter. Mostly because I didn't want to add in another connector scene. XP_


	8. Chapter 7

_A/N: Not sure what I'm feeling for this chapter, but here it is. Also, I switched titles around on the chapters, not that it's super important. I'm tired you guys. Lol. Enjoy!_

_Review Response:  
><em>_**xxVisionGirlxx:** Thanks and thanks for reviewing!  
><em>_**Rigal: **Thank you!  
><em>_**brady1119:** Thank you. It's always hard spotting my own mistakes, so I'm glad they aren't all over the place.  
><em>_**KatnissMellark:** What can I say? I'm actually an evil mastermind. Besides, you know you love it more if you have to wait a lil for it. :P  
><em>_**skittlesgirl99: ***runs from angry mob*  
><em>_**iam97: **I'm glad it was very Katniss. And no comment on the deal, 'cause most of it gets answered in this one I think.  
><em>_**AriadneO: **Haha, progress is relative. x) And the way I have it set up, you probably won't know all the details until the end and yeah._

CHAPTER 7: DELILAH'S DEAL

Today was the day. Individual scoring. Meeting the Game Makers in person. Sorta. At least having them judge the tributes carelessly and heartlessly. Peeta could barely even choke down the food that was placed on his table by the woman who would never speak.

Avox, Katniss had told him and would say no more.

"You need to eat more than that," Katniss told him, but it was lacking her usual harshness. She knew what day it was.

He managed to swallow the toast coated in sweet jam, but he wasn't sure his stomach would cooperate with anything more.

"Just show them you're strong," she reminded him. "They like a show of strength, and we know you have that."

She leaned over the table and rested her hand over his. "You don't have to impress them, Peeta."

His skin tingled where her hand touched his, and he swallowed again. He _liked_ the way his name sounded on her lips. Liked it more each time he heard it.

"At least we don't have to worry about me doing that," he joked with a cracked smile. He squeezed his large hand around her small fingers finding comfort for just one moment. But it was a short moment, because her fingers slipped away when she sat back.

"Never sell yourself short."

Self-depreciation was Peeta's strong suit. Too bad he couldn't just belittle himself in front of the judges for several minutes.

Peeta managed to down some orange juice and a few more pieces of toast. When they left it remained unsettled in his stomach. They took the elevator down to the lower level training area. All of the tributes gathered there, loosely paired off by district, though they would all go in alone.

Madge was already there, sitting at a table staring at her hands resting on the flat surface. Peeta glanced once at Katniss to see that expression of pain on her face once more. It was enough that Peeta didn't even ask for permission; he just went over to sit next to Madge.

"Ready?"

She shook her head. "Never."

"Me neither."

And they began the wait as twenty-two tributes would go before them.

…

Katniss had told him how they were basically ignoring her. That she was the very last tribute to have gone into that room to exhibit her talents before them and garner a score that would earn her sponsors. She had had to do the unthinkable—threaten the Game Makers—to get their attention, and for her brass, she earned herself a score of eleven.

No one got an eleven.

She had told Peeta to not be like her. To not let them get to her. To just go in there and be mediocre...

But this wasn't like what she had described. The judges weren't drunk on wine and food, sleepy and even irritated at having to do something. Instead they were leaning forward, attention firmly on Peeta as he entered. He was the center of their attention, and they awaited his performance with bright eyes.

They were _excited_ and it made him _pissed_.

Katniss' performance had evidently changed the way the Game Makers viewed District 12 tributes. They would forever pay close attention to the coal mining community, because once—just once—they had produced a terrifying tribute.

One who wasn't afraid of defiance.

Although Peeta was angry and wanted to flaunt a little of that defiance, he remembered what Katniss had told him. With a deep, steadying breath, he made his way to the weights and lifted them up. He started out small, ten pounds, then twenty.

The Game Makers, whose initial focus had been intent, was shifting ever so slightly back to their meal.

Thirty, forty pounds.

They poured more wine, began to chat a little amongst themselves.

Fifty, sixty pounds.

Laughter started to fill the room as they drank and ate still more. No one was looking at Peeta anymore, no one cared.

Seventy, eighty pounds.

Peeta wasn't tired, though he began to perspire from the effort of tossing eighty pounds worth of weight across the room. Not that anyone noticed besides him. Not that anyone _cared_ beyond him.

The hundred pound weight bounced off an invisible wall that separated Peeta from the Game Makers. It sizzled before flying outward to land at Peeta's feet. Finally, they were paying attention to him again. And it wasn't the silently exciting attention he had initially received. There was something darker in their eyes now and Peeta knew he had done it.

He should have listened to Katniss.

…

They gathered together for dinner, something they did rarely. Peeta sat next to Madge, Katniss next to Haymitch, and Portia next to Cinna. Effie sat on the other side of Madge with an empty chair beside her. She was chatting happily, but it was mostly to herself, because no one else was in a talking mood. They were too busy being preoccupied with the scores that would be announced shortly, televised for all of Panem to see.

Peeta hadn't said much since his trial. When Katniss had asked how things had gone, he had shrugged and told her that it had been about as good as he could have hoped for. She had frowned at him, unconvinced by his expression and he hadn't had the heart to tell her what his antics had entailed.

Madge was similar, but that wasn't unusual. She had always been a soft-spoken, quiet girl. And since Haymitch didn't seem to care that much one way or the other, she didn't divulge much.

If Peeta hadn't been so absorbed by his own stupidity, he might have asked her quietly and gently, told her that she did her best and there was nothing more they could do about it now. That it was best to just let things go.

After a meal spent mostly in silence—with Effie's tinkling, weird-accented voice as noise in the background—they gathered around the large television in the lounge. Nervous energy filled the room as everyone took their seats.

Peeta took a seat on the large couch with Haymitch, but Katniss stood, arms folded. Madge was in a chair by herself. Cinna and Portia, who had decided to stay for the announcement, took the small loveseat together.

The announcement seemed unnecessarily long, because twenty-two scores with twenty-two faces attached were shown first.

Pharon, from One. A solid eight. Maceon and Elsea, from Two. Got matching sixes. Buggette, from Three. A surprising seven. He was only fifteen and rather scrawny looking. Dryn from Four had the highest yet with a nine, but Four's female tribute only got a six. Seven was hard to watch. Keeter was only twelve years old and she earned herself only a four in training.

Katniss looked away as her picture appeared on the screen. Everyone knew the girl couldn't last long in the arena and no one wanted to think about it.

Tessarind from Ten got an eight. Her face appeared weathered from sun, hair lightened to the color of grain. She was unsmiling and Peeta wondered what she did to get an eight. Jengal, the boy from Eleven, appeared on the screen with a seven next to his name. He looked serious and very much dangerous.

Finally, it was District 12.

Madge's face appeared on the screen, looking pale and blonde and beautiful. And next to it was a number that made everyone turn to look at her. She didn't look up from the spot on her hands that she apparently found so interesting.

The number two flashed before their eyes and no one had it in them to ask how she could have done so poorly.

Since the day of the reaping, Madge had had everything set against her.

When Peeta's score appeared on the screen, he too attempted to avoid the others gazes.

Eleven was a little higher than anyone was expecting.

…

It was just the two of them, wandering the halls in silence. It was late, close to the time where they would return to their rooms and attempt sleep, hoping against hope that there would be no nightmares of the days to come.

Madge and Peeta's time together had been scarce—Katniss and Haymitch were making it pretty clear on either end that the two of them needed to understand that their friendship had gone out the window the day of the reaping. Mostly it was lunch time in the training areas, or occasionally finding themselves at the same booth, tying knots or painting flowers that surely wouldn't disguise them in the arena.

Now, their mentors elsewhere, their stylists gone for the night, Effie probably off readjusting that strange blue wig...

It was just them for this moment and they enjoyed the brief company in companionable silence. Neither spoke of the scores. Silence, until they heard a yell.

"Damnit Haymitch!"

Katniss' angry voice traveled down the hall to reach their ears. Their mentors were arguing. Glancing at each other, Peeta and Madge silently agreed to move towards the heated voices and listen in.

"We had a deal!" she yelled at him, and as they rounded the corner it was just in time to see her snatch a half-empty bottle of white liquor from Haymitch's shaky grasp.

This obviously made him angry and he made a grab for the bottle, but slipped and tumbled to the floor instead. The disgust on Katniss' face was plain to see. She made no offer to help him up.

"No liquor," she told him through clenched teeth. "No liquor during the Games, that was our deal."

"Deals," he muttered from the floor. "Always deals with you. 'No more choosing which tribute to bet on.' 'No more sacrifice.' 'No more alcohol.' I'm tired of your deals."

He might have made more of an impression if he hadn't been slurring his words.

"I'm tired of _yours_," she shot back. "You had _no right_!"

It was obvious they were have an age old argument at this point. Something that had been tirelessly debated between the two of them, time and again.

Haymitch didn't even bother looking at her when he replied, "I did what I had to to get one of you out alive. That's the rules, sweetheart."

The term of endearment was sickly sweet and went down like a choke hold of molasses. Katniss looked as though she was familiar with the petname and none too happy with it.

"You made the wrong choice."

"I made the only choice."

"That doesn't make it right."

"Ain't nothin' right about the Games, sweetheart."

Silence fell between them. Haymitch had crawled across the floor and now had his back resting against the wall. Katniss still had her arms crossed, but no longer seemed angry. Instead she just looked tired, defeated. As though Haymitch—the Games—had sucked all the fight out of her.

"No drinking," she told him again, voice softer this time. "Someone has to give their all for Madge and she chose you. I can't give my all to two tributes, Haymitch. You of all people know that."

He didn't say anything in response, just sighed. She walked away still gripping the clear bottle. Although he gave it a wistful stare, he made no move for it. In fact, he didn't move at all.

Peeta and Madge remained there, letting the exchange sink into their heads as they realized what had always been there, but they had never wanted to accept. They were from the same district, they were even friends, but in the Games, they could never be Victors together.

After that, they finally took their mentors' advice and stopped eating lunch together.


	9. Chapter 8

_A/N: If you want sneak peaks, check out my livejournal (linked in my profile), but I warn you, a lot of these chapters are way in the future, so if you don't want spoilers, I'd steer clear. But if you want to check out my journal anyway, you're welcome to. All spoilers are hidden behind LJ cuts. And on with the story!_

_Review Response:  
><em>_**Cortana Bennet:** I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that this is all Peeta's POV, so we don't get to see inside Katniss' thought processes for the 'softer side' of her. Honestly, sometimes I feel like I'm pushing her to Peeta too quickly. XP But yes, part of it is simply that she has been trying to keep the people from 12 from dying, but she can't seem to save them and either way she has to sacrifice someone. And of course, her own Games have messed with her.  
><em>_**mia66: **well, welcome to the story then! :) Thank you very much for reviewing. Katniss should get kinda interesting once the Games begin and don'tcha just love Peeta? Lol, hope you stick with the story!  
><em>_**Nemue: **(I always want to put an n in your name between the u and e xP) And I happen to entirely agree with your reviews comment—bring 'em on! Lol. And hahaha, that would be awesome. That's for the review!  
><em>_**Peacockgirl: **Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying the story (and don't mind it being in Peeta's POV). Thanks for reviewing!  
><em>_**ishyfish: **Haha, addicted already? Glad to hear it! Thanks for reviewing. :)  
><em>_**AriadneO: **It's good you're not asking—I wouldn't tell you anyway ;) —and **I'm** perfectly happy with you being addicted to the plot. x) I personally thought that was just too Peeta, you know? He seems so focused on how amazing Katniss is, he misses that he's pretty amazing, too. And I'll do my best to keep it good (and you hooked)!  
><em>_**Serafina Sky: **Thanks so much! :)  
><em>_**Lgwater27: **It is pretty sad to know that Madge is just screwed, isn't it? But that's the way it's gotta be. Thank you very much, and welcome to the story! :)  
><em>_**KatnissMellark: **Hahah, of course. I'll just write non-stop. Forget school and life, this story is the only thing that matters! x) I totally wish I could do that actually... Lol, anyway, thank you so much!  
><em>_**iam97: **It is pretty awful for Madge. I'm so mean to her... And yay! Sad was what I was aiming for, so I'm glad I hit my mark. x)_

CHAPTER 8: SWEETER THAN HONEY

The day had been quieter than most at the capitol. Whether it was because the announcing of the scores had shocked them all into silence, or Peeta and Madge's witnessing of the argument the night before had separated the two of them, or it was just that Haymitch was still too hung over to get out of bed, Peeta couldn't be sure.

But he was sure that, were they all back in Twelve, he would be able to hear the chirping of birds in the silence. He hadn't really heard any birds in the Capitol.

Maybe that was what had him climbing the steps, uncertain whether or not he was 'allowed' to do so, towards the door that was ajar at the top of them. He pushed it open and found himself swept up in a rush of warm fresh air. The door had opened up onto the rooftop.

Although it was the top of a building made of concrete and stone, surrounded by the extensive, pristine Capitol city, there was just a hint of beauty in it. There was a small... garden. A garden of flowers with a bench and a walkway. There didn't seem to be any real reason for it—Peeta decided there was probably very little reason behind _many_ things in the Capitol—other than to create something picturesque and perfect to sit and stare at.

He kind of liked that there was something created solely for the purpose of beauty.

A breeze ruffled his hair, and he moved into it, reaching the balcony. The sight was breathtaking. From his vantage, he could see the entire city. It looked so small, like a miniature of the real thing that he could just pick up and put away in an old trunk with the rest of his toys.

Peeta reached his hand out into the wind and—

"I would be more careful."

Peeta jerked his hand back immediately and spun around. Cinna stood before him calmly, smiling and stepping forward to stand beside him. He leaned against the balustrade, staring at the scene Peeta was admiring moments before.

"There's an invisible field around the entire roof," Cinna explained. "Just to make sure no one has an... _accident_."

Peeta glanced back to where his hand had been, then to Cinna. "Right. Wouldn't want any _accidents_ before the Games."

Cinna smiled. "That would be tragic."

They stood a little longer together in silence, just staring at the city below them, both lost in their own thoughts. But reprieves never last long, and with a sigh, Cinna stepped back.

"We'd better go lest your lovely mentor worry too much."

Cinna always spoke of Katniss affectionately. It made Peeta uncomfortable.

…

Usually, Peeta was left to speak briefly with Portia when Katniss was busy with other things or centered in a heated argument with Haymitch or Effie. But once they had made it down to the common room for breakfast—which was already laid out on the table, although neither sat to eat—Katniss was still not present, and Madge and Haymitch had probably already begun their practice for the interview. Assuming Haymitch had managed to drag his ass out of bed.

Cinna didn't say anything since they had left the roof, although he wasn't doing it out of rudeness. He was merely a calm, unobtrusive person by nature. Odd, considering his Capitol heritage.

Still, the silence was awkward for Peeta.

"Thank you," he said finally.

At Cinna's raised eyebrows, Peeta clarified. "I mean, for the outfit. The opening ceremonies. We were spectacular out there because of you and Portia."

Cinna studied Peeta silently for a moment before answering, "When Katniss had the names of the tributes, she called me."

Peeta forgot sometimes that there was communication possible between districts and the Capitol. It had never occurred to him that Victors might have that luxury.

"She told me: make them brilliant, Cinna. Give them a chance." Again Cinna watched Peeta closely, gauging his reaction. "I didn't ask why, and now, I think I don't need to."

Peeta didn't get the chance to ask what he meant, because Katniss came into the room and instantly, Cinna's attention went to her. He gave her a smile, and walked over to put his hands on either of her straight shoulders.

"The crowd's going to love him," Cinna promised. "He's a natural."

Katniss nodded, something like doubt and relief in her eyes. "Yeah, well, I hope so. Haymitch isn't looking so good today."

Frowning, Cinna whispered something too quiet for Peeta's ears and after a moment Katniss let out a small sigh. She reached up and put her hand on top of his, squeezing. After that, he gave one last glance to Peeta—filled with comfort and a silent pep talk— and then he left the room, disappearing to places that only Capitol citizens could go.

Peeta couldn't help but wonder how Katniss could seem to trust him so much... Although Portia seemed nice enough and time spent with her as she worked so very hard to make him spectacular was easy enough, he still couldn't stunt the flow of anger that went to all Capitol citizens.

They took away everything, after all.

But again, Peeta didn't ask questions about whatever friendship had built between Katniss and her stylist and again, Katniss didn't offer an explanation.

Today, Katniss looked incredibly stressed. It was interview day, Peeta remembered with dread, and her own interview had been... something of a first. He remembered the tight, red sparkling dress that dazzled the audience as she spun for them. Her shiny, curly dark hair pulled up off her neck save a few strategically placed ringlets. The questions that made her look adorable, even naïve, and no threat to the other tributes in any way except the form of Capitol affection and attention.

Until her last response. The one that belied the fire burning inside her heart. The one that wouldn't let her go down without a fight.

It wasn't in her nature.

Peeta had no idea how he was going to play this interview, and Haymitch was drunk as a skunk.

Katniss glanced over at the large, ornate clock nervously. Maybe she had been anticipating Haymitch, must have been, because Effie was never late and she wasn't here.

"I don't think he's coming," Peeta muttered to her.

"He'll be here."

"But if he's not..." Peeta trailed off.

Katniss sighed, "Peeta. I really... I'm not good with this stuff. I was never any good with words."

Peeta raised his eyebrows, realizing that Katniss hadn't been prepared for that interview at all. He should have known it, honestly, because Katniss could never be a trained show dog. There was too much honesty flooding her face, unable to be hidden by something like lies and pretending. That interview had been all her, despite any attempts by Haymitch or Cinna, the stylist.

Everything from the giggling girl to the intense tribute was all Katniss.

He stared at her with a new sense of awe. To have the bravery to be so exposed to the entire world and not crawl into a rock, to still fight with all of what made her her... Peeta couldn't do that. He hid behind falsehoods and lies and walls built to protect him and others.

Exposure wasn't an option.

"Don't worry, Peeta," she told him, struggling to figure out what to tell him. "They're going to like you."

He didn't believe her.

"You're good with words. And it helps that you're attractive."

He stared at her. _Attractive_. Katniss Everdeen thought he was _attractive_. She didn't say it as though this was some declaration of love—or that it would even necessarily lead eventually to a declaration or something close enough to it—but she still said it. And that rosy, sweet blush on her cheeks suggested that maybe she hadn't meant to blurt it out.

Several long moments passed between them as she searched for a way to work around what she just said, while he enjoyed a moment where she was looking at him as a girl looks at a boy.

"The Capitol's going to like your, um, Merchant, um, looks." She really wasn't any good with words.

He released her of any responsibility and embarrassment—no point in pushing her _now_.

"What do I say?" he whispered to her.

Katniss looked at him, frowning, uncertain. "You say... whatever you want the rest of Panem to keep with them, if you..."

"If I die."

She nodded her head. "This is the last thing you can give them that the rest of the Capitol can't shape. Can't manipulate. This is your last shot. Make the most of it, not because it gives you a better chance for sponsors, but because it makes people remember that you are a person."

And with that, Haymitch stumbled in. He let out a loud belch, "Load a bullshid."

…

Ultimately, everyone was right. The interview was easy enough for Peeta. Words were one of his few true strengths. Something that ultimately wouldn't do him any good in the arena. But it could do him some good now. The scores had been announced—Peeta's had been unusually high—but it wasn't a guarantee. If the other tributes made a stronger show in presence, sponsors would go to their personal favorites. For everyone, not just Peeta, the interview was the last chance to make an impression. It could help or hinder them in the long run, but with his natural gift with the word, Peeta could make himself and instant favorite with the crowd.

_It helps that you're attractive_.

She had said it offhand, as though she was only stating a fact, inconsequential beyond its relation to the Games and what it could do for him. But her cheeks still turned a rosy shade of pink and she wouldn't look at him.

That was what he was taking on stage with him. The image of rosy cheeks and the thought that Katniss Everdeen had noticed he was cute.

"You two are adorable enough to be twins!" Flickerman said, meaning it as a compliment, and the crowd giggled and awed in agreement.

Peeta thankfully kept the smile on his face. "That's a big compliment coming from you," Peeta said smoothly, managing to be both flattering with words and bashful in expression. "Especially since Madge is so pretty, I can't believe you compared me to her."

The crowd loved it. They ate it up and were hungry for more.

Flickerman was grinning now. "She certainly is," he agreed. "Do you have a girl like her back home?"

Peeta looked down towards his hands, shaking his head and blushing just a little. "No, sir. I'm not that lucky."

An audible "aw" left the crowd once more. He didn't mention Katniss, couldn't. They wouldn't understand, not again. Not like this. It didn't matter if it was true. It just never mattered.

"Chin up, Peeta!" Flickerman said enthusiastically. "If you win these Games, you can have any girl you want!"

Peeta gave a sad smile, and nodded, knowing that the girl he wanted was trying desperately to keep him alive, but in the end, could care less if it was _him_ going home.

If there was anything he wanted to say, a last confession, it was of love. It was a wish that he _would_ make it home, that he _would_ have a chance—just _one chance—_to win the girl of his dreams. But it was a confession he could never make.

Because four years ago another confession had been made and another boy had died. In the end, Peeta knew that it was only ever Katniss that would survive.

* * *

><p><em>AN: If you guys find mistakes in this one, please point them out. It was a little discombobulated when I first started writing it._


	10. INTERMISSION 2

_A/N: Thanks so much to my new Beta, **SubtleSpark**! I feel much better about submitting this. Yes, it's short, but you'll get another chapter pretty quickly here. Thanks for everyone reviewing!_

_Review Reply:_  
><em><strong>brandy1119:<strong> thanks! And you get a tiny smidgen of Katniss' Games here, but the juicy stuff comes later. x) Hopefully this can hold you off for a bit though._  
><em><strong>graceinclouds:<strong> Haha, thanks. Glad everyone's seeming pretty in character. :) And I'm tellin' you, those phones are becoming disastrous! Way too easy to check on things, lol._  
><em><strong>Serafina Sky:<strong> Squee! Thanks. :) Don't get me wrong, I totally want Peeta's confession... But it'll be better later on, lol. And I so just want to get to the Games! That way I can dish on everything that's going to happen... *sigh* soon, I promise. :)_  
><em><strong>Ems:<strong> thank you!_  
><em><strong>Funkypurplehino:<strong> Yep. I had to make her young enough to put some distance between her and the Games so that she's already had a chance to mentor, but still make her old enough to be able to volunteer for Prim. So 13 it was! Thanks for reviewing! :)_  
><em><strong>Schmii:<strong> Why thank you! I try to keep them in character as much as I can, but what fun is it if there's nothing new, right? x)_  
><em><strong>SubtleSpark: <strong>OMGNEWBETA! Lol, thanks for reviewing and betaing for me. :)_  
><em><strong>KatnissMellark: <strong>Strangely enough, you get your wish! Lucky you! Lol, and I'm debating whether or not I want to show what's the what from someone else's POV. I think it might mess with story flow, so meh, we'll see._  
><em><strong>XoLovelyWonderXo: <strong>I'm just glad you're still reading! (Though, not gonna lie, I love reviews. x)) I'm glad you're keeping in mind that it's the Quarter Quell. I haven't talked much about that, but don't worry, I have evil plans. x)_

INTERMISSION: katCAM 2

I was sitting in the common room. It was late; Peeta was already in bed, theoretically asleep like I told him to. And though I listened subconsciously for his desperate cries, my mind was, for once, not on him. Because tonight I was reliving a private pain that had been taped and televised for all of Panem to see.

The tapes of the 70th annual Hunger Games played on the large, flat TV screen. I watched with the rapt attention that the Games always demanded, even though I already knew how this Game would end.

Because it had been _my_ Game. I had won. I had lost. Gale had died.

I watched his young, clean face, always unsmiling, always serious. It was the night of the interview—Peeta's own aired program had inspired the trip down memory lane. I had already gone, twirling like some Capitol doll, beautiful because Cinna had made me that way. A trained show dog, jumping through hoops and rings of fire even though my hair singed.

Gale's face was hardened in determination. He looked older than he was, aged by the death of his father, of taking the weight of his family's survival on his shoulders, of hunting illegally—with me—in the forests outside of Twelve to keep his siblings from starvation.

Peeta had gone up to Caesar, all innocence and blushing charm, wistful for a girl back home... But Gale had gone with an agenda, a purpose. A careless strength that earned him respect and appeal when normally it would have lost him sponsors.

They were so different. Gale had been stronger than Peeta... But he still had... _lost._ If Gale hadn't been able to win, how was I ever going to save Peeta?

I paused the screen, staring at the boy who had once been my best friend. I tried not to think of Madge going into the arena, so unprepared, so innocent. My last true friend. I tried not to think of Peeta, sitting on stage with a curious, adorable blush on his cheeks, looking for all the world like a sweet, sweet child. I tried not to think of how the Games were taking _everything_ from me.

Because I couldn't think like that. I had Prim, and there was nothing I could ever do to jeopardize her life.

"Gale..." I whispered to an empty room.

At least, I _thought_ it was empty. But apparently my _favorite_ mentor was there, leaning against the doorway, watching me like the creepy old bastard he was.

"Still thinkin' 'bout him, eh?"

I didn't answer. It wasn't any of his business. Because as much as maybe Haymitch could understand what I was dealing with, I could never let him in again. I still blamed him. I had to.

"People die, sweetheart," he told me mildly. "It happens to everyone. Even the damn Capitol citizens."

I still didn't respond. He considered me for a moment. "Think the boy's got a chance?"

I don't know what it was about that statement, but it set me off. "Leave him alone. There's no room for your damn deals anymore."

Proving that Haymitch and me shared more in common than either of us liked to admit, he matched my outburst with one of my own.

"Let it go!" he finally hollered at me angrily. "He ain't here; you are. Live with it. It's about all you can do."

I fumed at him, if only to hide the slowly shattering pieces of my heart. "That's because _you_ agreed to help him die!"

It wasn't that simple, I knew that, but it was still true. Gale had made a plan with Haymitch _behind my back_. They made a deal that if there was to be a victor from District 12, it would not be Gale Hawthorne. It would be, me, Katniss Everdeen, the thirteen-year-old girl whose sister depended upon her, whose mother would fall apart without her, whose family was struggling as it was.

Never mind that _Gale_ had a family, too.

And regardless of how their plan played out, of the other tributes, of the inevitable slaughter, their intent had succeeded. Haymitch was right about one thing at least: I was still here. Gale wasn't.

"He thought he loved me," I couldn't bring myself to even consider that he did, completely and wholly. It would drive me over the edge. There had to be at least the _chance_ that it wasn't real love. That I hadn't killed the only man in the world who would ever look at me like that. "He thought he loved me and you used that against him! You manipulated him!"

"The only one I manipulated was you," Haymitch replied with a smirk, that dangerous look in his eyes, the one from the Games, set in place.

"Lets not debate your long list of _mistakes_, Haymitch," I growled back. "How low do you have to be to use _love_ as a means to an end?"

"That wasn't love, sweetheart," Haymitch said sourly. "You wanna see love? Look at that little blonde tribute of yours. It's written all over his face."

With that, the man—looking older than I had ever seen him—left me standing in a mixture of seething anger and bewilderment. I would never have to ask what Haymitch's price had been to win the Games. I would only ever have to ask what _Peeta's_ was going to be. Because I had already decided that he was going to win.

Madge's blonde smiling face popped into my mind. I stroked the bronze pin that had been a gift and my token, trying not to think.

Now I knew. I understood. My guess had been correct. The reason why Peeta had been trying so hard to sacrifice himself for Madge was because he was _in love_. Just like Gale had claimed to be.

My mind flashed back to his interview.

He had agreed wholeheartedly that Madge was incredibly beautiful, that anyone would be lucky to have someone like that. That he wasn't so lucky to have that to return home to.

Peeta Mellark was in love... and I couldn't explain why that made my heart sink into my stomach like a rock.


	11. Chapter 9

_A/N: Anyone else COMPLETELY (or at least a little) freak out about FF dot net being unavailable as far as logging in goes? 'Cause it's been hard on me. I've been sitting on this chapter for like a day, and I *hate* doing that. Anyway. This is short, but it's better as a stand alone. (And I've got the next one almost done, so no worries!) Thanks again to **SubtleSpark**, my awesome new beta! Cheers!_

_Review Reply:_  
><em><strong>BleedtoLoveHer: <strong>Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed. :)_  
><em><strong>GirlOnFire2012: <strong>Aww, thank you! I really appreciate that; such a lovely compliment. :)_  
><em><strong>Jits: <strong>Haha, hope this was soon enough for you! ;)_  
><em><strong>Kate:<strong> Well, I'm infinitely glad you chose to this time! I absolutely love reviews. :) And yours was lovely! (Also, I like Gale... just never with Katniss! x) They're too much alike. Gale is the male version of Katniss; Madge is like the female version of Peeta, so obviously, neither pairing works. At least, that's *my* justification.) Hopefully my story keeps you intrigued. Thanks again!_  
><em><strong>Peacockgirl:<strong> Thank you so much! :) Katniss is so very oblivious sometimes... Of course, we do have a little bit more insight into what's going on than she does... And I like giving the audience a little break from All Peeta All The Time. x)_  
><em><strong>teampeeta4ever: <strong>Thanks! :D_  
><em><strong>XoLovelyWonderXo:<strong> Haha, gotta keep things interesting, right? I love that you're always trying to figure out what's going to happen next! Hope you keep guessing (and reading and reviewing... :P) Thanks for reviewing! :)_  
><em><strong>Serafina Sky: <strong>Hahahah, tease! I love it! x) (And totally guilty as charged.) Don't worry! I already have it written! (You just won't get to see any of it for a while... xP) _  
><em><strong>mia66: <strong>Good to hear you're enjoying! And yeah, Katniss is a hot mess of bitterness, isn't she? x) Poor Peeta's got his work cut out for him!_  
><em><strong>bree: <strong>I actually prefer Katniss and Madge being close friends, but it worked out better this way. (Though I'm not against a Madge/Peeta friendship.) Mostly, Madge is just my instigator. She causes all the trouble (just like she did in the books with her mockingjay pin)! Anyway, thanks for the review! _

CHAPTER 9: WHERE HIS STRENGTH LIES

It was his last night. Tomorrow he would enter the arena and the Games would begin. Any thoughts of surviving even one more night were weak at best. He sat on his bed, wishing for the comfort he'd had the night before when Katniss had sat where he did now and told him that it was okay to cry alone. But he knew she wouldn't come to him tonight. Because she knew, just as surely as he did, that there was no reason to do so beyond this point. She had done all she could for him; now her business came in the form of getting him sponsors. There was no more preparing _him_. All that was passed now. There was only the waiting and the sleeplessness that would devour him whole.

He couldn't sit here. Not thinking the way he was. Not listening to his own mind replay _her_ Game over and over and over again, repeating the worst parts. The parts where she lost herself to the Capitol.

He didn't want to remember her like that.

So he pushed himself off of the bed and left the luxurious room provided to all tributes. There was nowhere to go, he knew. No place to hide, no comfort to be found. Nothing but the suffocating feeling of an entire building that held its breath in anticipation of the day to come.

Day one of the Games.

He wandered the empty halls aimlessly; letting his feet do the driving in an effort to avoid decisions. Without realizing it, he found himself climbing the stairs to the rooftop. The door, already ajar, opened out into the fresh air of a beautiful night.

They allowed him onto the roof, he knew, because there was no danger here. He couldn't end his suffering by throwing his body over the side and into the streets below. A force field was there to prevent that. _For his protection, of course_.

Shaking his head, he ignored the anger at the thought. They protected only their precious games.

Games of murdering children as punishment for a crime they certainly hadn't committed.

He sighed heavily, wishing for a reprieve. There was none. Instead, he found a figure leaning over the railing, staring down at the Capitol city. For a second he thought it was Cinna again, but the moment faded quickly as he realized who it was. He moved closer to get a better look at her, but he didn't have to. He had already confirmed who it was.

"Katniss."

She didn't turn to look at him. "Come to watch the party?" she asked in the monotone voice that made its appearance on the days when she was too exhausted to be angry. "It's for you, after all."

He leaned on the balcony next to her, glancing down at the streets. They were filled with Capitol citizens, garbed head-to-toe in impossibly bright colors. They looked like poorly drafted drawings that a child had colored in his book a little too enthusiastically, holding no regard for lines or rules. Just smearing crayon everywhere because he liked the colors.

"At least someone's having a good time," Peeta muttered. Costumes, he thought. Nothing but flittering, glittering, fake costumes trying to make savages look like people.

It didn't work.

"You should be getting some sleep," Katniss admonished, but there was no bite to it. She wouldn't deny him this last night to do as he wished. Maybe she was giving a dying boy his last wish.

"Couldn't."

She nodded. If anyone would understand, it was her.

They stood there in silence for a while, not looking at each other, not really paying attention to the frivolous, happy pandemonium below. Just standing and trying not to think of anything at all.

"I keep trying to come up with a way," he finally said to her, though he continued to stare out into the night. The nights were prettier in District 12, he decided. Even with the coal dust covering everything. At least there, he could still see the stars. At least there, he knew they were _real_.

"A way?" Katniss asked.

"A way to…to show the Capitol they don't own me," he tried to explain. "That I'm more than just a piece in their Games."

She didn't respond and he knew that she didn't understand. Probably, she couldn't. His fear of losing everything he was... it should pale in comparison to that of impending death. But it didn't. There was no way for him to win, not even with Katniss Everdeen on his side. He had accepted that. There was nothing left now but to try and hold on to the things that made him _him_ and to somehow not embarrass himself—or her. After all, he was _her_ tribute. No reason to smear her name.

No reason to make her feel guilty over his inevitable death...

"If I knew a way," she whispered. "I'd tell you."

She didn't look at him, but he turned to stare at her. Her profile was sharp and by Capitol standards probably not what would be considered beautiful. Not now, with all the costume-paint washed from her face, the bronze and gold jewelry left somewhere to collect dust, her hair down and left to the wind... No, not the Capitol's style at all. There was no control in her appearance, only a feel of ethereal wildness that came from the combination of the wind playing with her dark hair and the moon shining off her skin.

He decided he liked her wild.

She had surprised him. Always, she surprised him. Because he realized now, by the haunted look in her eyes that didn't look at him, that he had misjudged her. If anyone in the world could understand what he was trying to say, the dark emotions welling up inside of him, it was the girl beside him.

Because maybe she had already felt the loss of what made her _her_.

"But I don't. I don't know anything. Only that everything changes once you're in the arena. The world outside doesn't exist anymore. There is only you and twenty-three others who want nothing but to go home. And there's only one way home, Peeta." She didn't have to tell him that it was through him.

An image of Katniss kneeling beside the body of a little girl speared through the chest burst unbidden into his mind. A song of mourning and promise filled his ears and he wanted to tell her that she hadn't lost herself in her Game.

She was still Katniss.

But he didn't, because that image was followed almost immediately by the arrow that shot through the air and only nicked Gale Hawthorne, but killed him just the same.

Katniss had definitely lost _something_ in that Game.

"Just stay alive, Peeta," she told him, suddenly fierce. "That's all I want you to do now. Just _stay alive_."

…


	12. Chapter 10

_A/N: So. WE ARE ALMOST THERE OMG! Lol. But seriously, Peeta and Madge finally enter the Games in this chapter, so hold on to your butts! (Please excuse the Jurassic Park reference...) _

_Review Reply:  
><em>_**Peacockgirl: **I'm glad you liked it. I like including lines from the book here and there. I think it gives it a feeling of authenticity or something like that. x)  
><em>_**PandaKatie:** I EFFING LOVE YOUR REVIEW! xP Just thought I'd share that with you. 'Cause 'BAM I MAKE IT'S BETTER' is like the best thing I've heard in a review in a long time. x) So thanks for making my day.  
><em>_**Amelia: **Thank you for reading my story! And for liking it! And then reviewing! xP Really though, thanks for taking a look at this and bothering to leave a review. Means a lot to me. :)  
><em>_**AriadneO:** First. I am so proud of myself! I spelled your name correctly this time! (I've had to go back and correct it several times now...) Second. You are welcome! I'm happy to update as often as I can. I wanna keep this ball rolling. And I'm totally excited to get them in the arena, too! I have so much I wanna do... xP  
><em>_**pirate-princess1: **You know what's funny? I totally had a roommate who went by pirate princess (well, I think there was pink in there somewhere, too, but still)! Just thought I'd share. Anyway, thanks for reviewing! I appreciate the kindness. :)  
><em>_**bree:** you're welcome lol!  
><strong>Morgana359: <strong>Thanks for the review! And I completely agree. It's an **awful** idea to fall in love with someone who's basically screwed, and you're responsible for. Which is why it's such a fun story plot. x) We'll find out what happens soon, so I hope you stick around!_

CHAPTER 10: LION'S MIGHT

Peeta would like to say that on his last day in the Capitol before the Games, he was strong and proud and had no fear to speak of.

But it would be a complete lie.

He didn't even get the chance to see her before he left. Katniss. He was grateful for their little surprise rendezvous, because he was apparently not going to get to see her again.

_Ever,_ his mind whispered.

He raked his fingers through his hair, trying to comb the Capitol products from it, but it just sprang back into place. His styling team had taken great care to give his hair what they called a 'bedhead tousled' look. He thought it was kinda messy.

The outfit provided to him was basic—Katniss had told him to pay attention to what he was wearing; it would tell him about the arena—just heavy black pants, laced up boots, a heavy leather belt that had some sort of insert clasp instead of a buckle, a tight fitting black t-shirt whose sleeves ended at his biceps, and a light jacket with a loose hood hanging from the back that was a dark, navy blue-gray. It was the only part of the outfit that had any color, he noticed.

He frowned. What was this supposed to tell him?

A hovercraft took him to the secret location that would serve as his launch site into the arena. He was tagged like an animal, so they could monitor him regardless of where he was in the arena. He made the trip with Portia, who was silent now. She had become more and more reserved as his training progressed. Despite her Capitol appearance, she seemed mild and sat with perfect posture the entire ride, while he remained motionless in the energy field that held him frozen in place.

At least he couldn't make a fool of himself and run.

When they finally reached their destination—somewhere that remained a complete mystery to him—it was sweet relief to have control of his body again. Even so, the relief didn't last long.

His nerves felt rubbed raw, itching and burning and just waiting to remind him that he was oh so expendable in the grand scheme of things. That he was just one of many pieces in a game that wasn't about him or the other tributes, but a regime that survived on terror.

Even Katniss' words—spoken from the lips of an ethereal goddess the night before—couldn't bring him any measure of peace. No. Today, it was all shaking limbs and fearful breaths. Today, it was only him and Portia, standing in a small, underground room awaiting the final signal that would send him to his death. Not a particularly encouraging start to the day.

His breakfast roiled in his stomach and he swallowed harshly.

Portia, showing a kindness that he decided was not completely absent within the Capitol, placed a delicate, jewel-encrusted hand on his shoulder.

"Breathe, Peeta," she told him.

Her mermaid hair was pulled from her face in a wild braid that had enough volume to look like the ocean itself, though he had little to compare it to. There were wild twists of white and gold, sea-green that might have been an underwater plant, and a couple of tiny, gleaming pearls. The pale skin—not dyed or tattooed—had make-up that shimmered as the light shifted when she moved, her eyes decked out in too-long lashes and silver eyeliner. They made the blue of her eyes—fake, he thought—look dull compared to the rest of the glam.

He supposed she was pretty, beautiful even, by Capitol standards. But Peeta couldn't bring himself to be really _attracted_ to her. And it wasn't because of her indeterminate age or that she was dressing him up like a roast made pretty before the carving. It wasn't even that he couldn't decide what things about her were real and which ones were fake. It was something more fundamental. A flaw in personality that he thought was not her fault.

She seemed dim.

Not in wits. There was definitely an air of intelligence to Portia. No, it was more about her dull eyes, despite the alterations to them. They told him a story that was bland and sad and filled with a light that never seemed brighter than the pale of first morning's light.

She seemed so _empty_. Not even the way Capitol people were shallow. Just like she somehow knew how Panem was unfairly distributed, and she knew that she had been fortunate enough to have luxury at her fingertips, and she _knew_ that he came from a place where the next meal was far more important than the latest style. That in his world, she was not only superfluous, but also useless.

And all of this knowledge had only served to make her resign herself to the unfairness of it all, instead of determined to fight against it.

It didn't make Peeta dislike her. It only made him sad.

The eternity it seemed to be taking them to begin the first of his last days was wearing Peeta thin. He wasn't sure how much longer he could just stand around waiting for the end to come without losing his sanity.

Couldn't they just _start_ the damn thing already?

A sound like scraping rock came from behind him and he spun automatically towards it.

He blinked at what he saw.

It wasn't what Peeta would call traditional for a mentor to see a tribute on the first day of the Games, before the launch. But Katniss was anything but traditional—Peeta had come to understand that Katniss liked to play by her own rules, and could easily disregard anyone else's. Even so, he couldn't fathom how the Capitol would allow her in the launch site. Not that it would give anyone an advantage over anyone else. Not that Portia—or Cinna, wherever he and Madge were—couldn't just tell Katniss what she knew. Maybe that had been the Capitol's reasoning, too.

Whatever the truth, she was here now.

He would get to see her one more time.

She walked out from a wall of shadows, glancing with only her eyes around the room, looking for something. A hint of surprise touched Portia's so often empty expression, telling Peeta she hadn't been anticipating Katniss either.

Peeta never saw a door and knew ultimately that it didn't matter anyway.

Katniss walked quickly towards him, her eyes still roaming the walls, checking for something. It wasn't until she stopped directly in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch, that her eyes finally shifted and landed on him.

They didn't gleam with hope or shimmer with tears. There were no traces of sadness or hints of love.

But there was fire.

She had to stand on her tiptoes and brace her hands on his shoulders, but she still managed to lift herself up enough to place her warm, trembling lips against his cheek. It was brief and soft, timid almost, but with it flooded a torrent of warmth and courage. He felt as though, whatever she had inside of her that was the essence of bravery, she had given to him through that one touch.

He wondered if she had any left for herself.

It wouldn't be enough to keep him alive. It wouldn't do the job of saving his life, not without his determined actions. It wouldn't serve as a shield against spears or arrows or poison, but it could be a wall between him and the Capitol. He wouldn't have to go in there unarmed.

"Katniss, I—"

But there was no time. She gave him one last fleeting smile, then turned to disappear back into the darkness she had entered through.

Portia cleared her throat, as gracefully as anyone could, to grab his attention. After a moment, he turned to look at her. She gave him a sad smile and gestured to the silver, metal circular platform where he would stand and await the break at the Cornucopia. Obediently, he moved towards it.

"Good luck Peeta Mellark," she told him. "I have faith."

When both of his feet were planted firmly on the platform, a wall of clear glass shot up around him and he couldn't hear Portia anymore. He placed a hand against the glass, a silent goodbye.

The sad smile remained in place as he was lifted upwards and she disappeared from view.

He rose up into a clearing, with a sky too dark for the time of day it had to have been. In the center was a large cornucopia filled with not just food, but weapons, backpacks, supplies, even medicines, all spilling out in a gleaming pile of temptation. Every Game since the first, there had been a bloodbath here. This one would be no different.

There were bright lights illuminating the center of the clearing where the goods lay.

He heard the ticking, as though imbedded in his ear. The tracking device in his arm felt raw and heavy. His breathing sounded too loud, as though it were a shot in an empty stadium. The sky seemed too dark; maybe real, maybe artificial. The lights glinted off the golden cornucopia as though to blind him. He already felt sweaty, nervous. Antsy, as though ready to jump off, suddenly tired of waiting. Tired now that he _had_ to wait. Now that his life depended upon it.

The others seemed too calm, too confident. Far enough away to be figments of his imagination. Shiny memories that seemed more false than real, but couldn't be disproven.

He was here. This was real. He was here. This was real. He was—

The cannon blast sounded and within seconds twenty-four kids jumped off their steel platforms and took their dark new world at a run...


	13. Chapter 11

_A/N: Uh... Meow? Uber thanks to my superawesometastical beta **SubtleSpark**! Wish her well feelings and happy thoughts and CHOCOLATE. Because she did TWO chapters for you guys! So love her lots. x)_

_Review Reply:_  
><em>First, there have been a couple of you who just SPAMTASTIKed my account with a review on EVERY CHAPTER right when you found my story... to you, I say this: YOU ARE AWESOME! I love reviews, and it's cool to see what you think along the way. Some honorable mentions in this category: <strong>Faithless Lullaby<strong> and a reviewer that literally left no name. x)_  
><em>Second, <strong>pirate-princess1<strong> brought up a good point, so let me clarify (for everyone): Katniss was not supposed to see Peeta before his Games, but she snuck in. She was not with him on the hovercraft, but was at the launch site. As of now, we do not know how she got there and why she didn't get in trouble (I give no guarantees that we ever will)._  
><em>Third, I got a review that mentioned an obvious flaw with my storyline. Prim is four years younger than Katniss, therefore, Katniss could not have volunteered for her at the age of 13. I haven't mentioned this, simply because it hasn't come up, but I'll say it here: I've altered Prim's age for the story (keep the rotten fruit throwing to a minimum please and thank you) and thusly, she is only a year younger than Katniss. In this story, she is currently 16.<em>  
><em>Thanks to: <strong>pirate-princess1, XoLovelyWonderXo, Faithless Lullaby, tipsyapple, outofthesun, Reven Eid,<strong> and** Lulunoel!** _  
><em>You guys are becoming too many to reply to individually on here! So, I'll send you private messages (to those who allow me to contact them) as replies and simply do a name mention here. I'll talk about anything relevant to everyone as well. I think that'll work out better in the end! :) So thanks so much, as always, for the reviews! You guys rock!<em>

CHAPTER 11: TEN THOUSAND DEAD

Peeta took off at a run, leaving the platform behind him. There wasn't enough time to really formulate a plan, to decide which direction was best, where he was going to go, what he was going to do. He was just running on adrenaline, knowing that that cannon sounding in the distance meant _run, move_.

He knew the Cornucopia was a bad decision. That going there would mean certain death for him, so he steered clear of it, despite the luring promise of spoils to be won.

His back was turned from the massacre, so he heard more than saw the bloody battle that was waging at the golden horn. The cries as tribute after tribute fell, cannons sounding to mark their deaths. He couldn't keep an exact count of the number, but he estimated at least five. Maybe more.

The sounds grew fainter as he put some distance between himself and the clearing. There was rustling around him as others chose the same path as him, moving away from the clearing instead of further into it, but they were distant. No one was directly beside him that he was aware of, and he counted himself lucky.

The arena was made up of some sort of forest. Probably, the trees were similar to those outside of the fence in Twelve, but he couldn't be sure. He hadn't spent any time in them.

Although it was dark and there was no sun to warm the air, there was still warmth pressing in on him laced with moisture. Humidity. Branches grazed his face and exposed skin as he raced through the wilderness, but he ignored the minor scrapes. His goal was simply space.

He ran until his lungs burned and he thought he might collapse from the effort. When he finally stopped his mad dash, he took a moment to listen. There were sounds of the forest all around him—chirps and buzzing and creaks and rustling—but nothing that sounded human. For the moment, he was safe.

And so, he sank down onto his haunches, hand splayed on the trunk of a tree for balance as he tried desperately to catch his breath. His mind buzzed with a hazy fog that was made up mostly of worry and terror and just plain exhaustion, but he tried to think through it. Tried to remember what Katniss had told him to do.

Water.

That was supposed to be his priority. More important than even finding shelter or food. He remembered Katniss' Game, the dry thirst that plagued her the first day, and knew he would have to find some soon.

So with a deep breath that burned through his lungs, he straightened back up and took in his surroundings.

The darkness made it difficult. There was nothing but forest all around him, but he couldn't see much farther than a few feet in front of him. This was going to make things difficult.

_Listen,_ Katniss had told him.

And that's what he did. He strained his ears and tried to filter the foreign sounds that were pressing in on him, trying to listen for a babbling brook or something.

Frustrated, he threw up his arms and let them fall back to his side. He didn't even know what he was _doing!_ Besides standing in a dark, unfamiliar place, waiting for the world to cave in on him or for some menacing tribute to pop out of the bushes and turn to cannibalism.

Obviously, he was not as good as Katniss. He wasn't going to find anything just standing around and listening.

So he began to move again.

…

Peeta had decided that it was never going to get light. Whatever arena the Game Makers had designed, it was one where the sun didn't shine. Ever. He was stuck in perpetual darkness and some detached part of him wondered if they were using night vision cameras non-stop to keep up on things. Would the Capitol be okay with that? Probably, he decided, so long as they still killed each other.

The only positive thing Peeta could really come up with was that eight tributes had died at the Cornucopia. Their deaths would serve to sate the general population for at least the night. Not that Peeta could exactly tell the difference between night and day. But regardless of the strange eternal darkness, Peeta would eventually be able to sleep. No one would be forced into a fight now.

That would come later.

And until it did, during this brief reprieve, he needed to prepare himself. Find that water source, figure out what he was going to do for food—this was a forest right? There had to be some edible vegetation—find shelter. There were important things to be done before the tributes duked it out and before he could sleep.

He continued his trek through the wilderness.

…

He couldn't say how long he had been walking, or how many stops he had made along the way, but it had been in total darkness the entire way. Peeta knew when it was actually night only because of the seal that appeared in the dark sky overhead. The images of dead tributes hovered in the air, projections of their faces and their districts shown to inform those tributes left whom had perished at the Cornucopia.

His count had been off. Eight total were dead.

Ahmber, the girl from One appeared first. She was pretty and shiny and only fourteen. Now, she was only dead. Next was a pretty girl from Four with bright blonde hair that was more white than yellow. Her eyes were sea-green and a smile seemed to twitch at her lips despite the circumstances under which her photo was taken. She had been fifteen. A bland looking boy with sandy hair, hazel eyes, and a ruddy complexion came after Four. He had been from Five. Six lost both of its tributes. A small girl with brown pigtails and a scrawny boy with black hair and yellowish skin. The girl from Eight, a dishwater blonde, and the girl from Nine, too. A brunette with golden streaks and a nervous look to her. And finally, the girl from Eleven, Selby. She had darker skin and wild black hair. She had been fifteen.

Eight dead. All of them had to have died at the Cornucopia, because he hadn't heard a single cannon since then. Peeta wouldn't know exactly how they died, who was responsible. Not unless he somehow managed to make it out of the arena alive.

Unlikely.

Peeta rubbed at his eyes tiredly and sighed. Madge's name hadn't been in the sky, not tonight. So she had survived the Cornucopia, meaning only that, like Peeta, she had at least some common sense. Another surprise, the little girl from Seven had made it out as well.

Unfortunately, the big players had survived. The boy from One, both tributes from Two, the boy from Four... Competition was everywhere, lurking in the darkness, just waiting for the moment to make itself known...

Peeta wasn't ready for this.

So he nestled himself under the branches of a large bush and lay on his side. He needed to remind himself how to breathe and that he wasn't allowed to die until Katniss told him to.


	14. INTERMISSION 3

_A/N: Okay, because I felt like such a douche for not showing what happened at the Cornucopia, I decided I would give you all another katCAM! This one is her viewing the first day of the Games. (Some of you may have noticed that we're getting more katCAMs, and you're right. Mostly, it's because the two have been separated, I think. So now I want you to know both sides of the coin. You're still going to get more Peeta than Katniss, but it'll start evening out a bit. Now. On with the show!) And again, thanks to **SubtleSpark**! For noticing that there is no District 15! XD_

INTERMISSION: TEN THOUSAND DEAD

It was Day One of the Games—the 75th Annual Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell—and the tributes had been summoned up from under the ground, standing upon shiny silver pedestals, each one looking like ancient statues from a place I had never seen and no one was from anymore.

They were all dressed in black with a jacket only a shade lighter than that and suddenly, I could see why. Although the arena appeared clearly to me, it was tinted in strange bright colors that made it look grainer than it actually was. The same way the video feed often looked when the tributes slept.

They had just entered into the arena, but it was already night.

I bit my lip; this could either be very good or very bad for Peeta. I had the sinking suspicion it was going to be very bad...

I was sitting with Haymitch and Effie on the satiny red couch on the twelfth floor of the enormous building that housed the tributes during training. We were watching the Games with rapt attention on the large flat screen provided for us.

Effie was cooing about the outfits and the overall prettiness of Twelves tributes compared to the rest, and I had to agree, although it was hardly my concern, that Peeta and Madge were gorgeous next to so many bland, half-starved tributes. Even those from One—the wealthiest of the districts—didn't have the same obvious beauty that ours did.

Part of that was Portia and Cinna's magic; part was simply the fact that two fair merchant kids had been chosen instead of those from the Seam.

Neither Cinna nor Portia were present, but that wasn't strange. They had other concerns to attend—some of them involving us Mentors, because later we would surely be presented once more to the Capitol audience—and were probably watching from the comfort of their own homes as they worked on new fashion designs.

I couldn't help wringing my hands together in my lap as I leaned over, resting my elbows on my knees. We all stared unblinking at the screen counting down to the first cannon that would sound the official start to everything.

_Just stay alive, Peeta._ I wondered if he would listen to me or just throw in the towel then and there at the Cornucopia.

I wondered if he would die on the first day for her, for Madge. My friend.

The cannon blast was loud to my ears and I could feel the ringing in my left, the memory of the blast that stole my hearing as clear as day. The tributes took off at a run, about half heading straight into the fight, the others turning tail to disappear off into the dark forest.

Thankfully, Peeta was one of the latter.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. He would at least survive the bloodbath.

And it _was_ a bloodbath.

Pharon from One was a large boy, obviously a Career, with a buzz cut and square jaw. Just before the cannon, he had given a dark look to his fellow female tribute that stood on his left. She was only fourteen and had looked incredibly nervous; now I understood why. The look must have said, _you're following me_, because when Pharon jumped into the clearing making a beeline to the golden Cornucopia, the girl hesitated a mere second before following him into the fray.

It was Three that killed her. Crosserin, if memory served. A tall, somewhat gangly girl with shoulder-length black hair and a mole on the side of her face. She had reached the Cornucopia before the others—she was fast if nothing else—and had pulled a long knife with a serrated edge. When Pharon hit the platform next, he dove for a large sword and spun on his heels to fight the approaching tributes. He didn't pay any attention to the little girl following him, even as Crosserin lunged at her. The older girl stuck her blade into One's neck and blood gurgled from the wound.

My consolation was that it was a quick kill. The girl from One wouldn't suffer.

Both tributes from Two arrived shortly after Pharon and paid him no mind as they picked out two identical spears. Obviously, a truce had already been formed with Pharon.

I couldn't tell yet if Crosserin was a part of that truce. Had Three merely been weeding out the weak when she killed the girl from One? Had Pharon let her do it?

Off to the side I saw the flittering little girl from Six sneak in and grab a backpack and a water bottle, but no weapons. Smart girl, I thought, since she was too small to use most of the available weapons and for the first few days her best bet was to duck and cover. She would need supplies for that.

It looked like she was going to make it out of there—I was silently hoping she would; she was only thirteen with twin braids of black hair and equally dark eyes—but just as she reached the edge of the clearing, a throwing knife pierced her leg and she went down with a cry.

I kept silent, but let out a sigh. I knew better than to be rooting for anyone other than Peeta.

The knife had been thrown by the boy from Five, one of the shorter boys, but he had a good arm. Within seconds he was beside the little girl as she tried to crawl away. He pulled out the knife and I made myself watch as he cut her throat. He grabbed the backpack and made to leave, but he wouldn't keep his prize either.

It was an arrow shot first threw through his shoulder—I had a feeling whoever was doing the shooting had missed their mark—that made him drop the bag, then a second one in his side made him hit the ground. A third in the back finally made him lie still.

I tried not to think that I could have killed him in one shot instead of three. I didn't want to prove that, once again, I was the better killer.

It was the scrawny boy from Three that finally made off with the cursed backback. He dipped into the forest and disappeared.

The boy from Six went also, the girls from Eight and Nine. The girl from Eleven.

And finally, I thought the massacre was over—only seven fatalities—but I was wrong. Tsirea from Four, Finnick's girl, was left kneeling in front of Pharon clutching at her bleeding, brutalized shoulder. Her bright eyes were staring up at him, mocking almost.

"Coward," I heard her say. "You're not gonna make it out, either, you know."

Anger burned on his face and he thrust the sword through her chest. She let out a soft cry, but choked on it. I saw her eyes dart to the right and just barely caught it. Dryn, her male counterpart, had manged to snatch something from the Cornucopia and was disappearing into the night.

Tsirea had been a distraction.

I wondered when tributes had started playing like this. When they had started killing off their own weak links or making deals to save one or the other. I thought these were games only Mentors played, but here I was watching them do the same damn thing.

Everyone was making choices and I couldn't figure out anymore which ones were the right ones.

I let my head fall into my hands and silently said a prayer for Finnick's girl. He was going to take this hard; he always did.


	15. Chapter 12

_A/N: I just wanted to take a minute and say a big THANK YOU to everyone who has been reading the story, the people who have added it to their favorites and their alerts, and especially to those of you who have reviewed! Because anyone who has ever written anything on here knows how awesome it is to receive a review from your readers. It has an impressive way of making your day. And, 'cause I'm a little bit nutty, I'd like to reward you guys for putting in the effort! (And maybe bribe you a bit to continue doing so :P)_

_Because I have officially reached 100 REVIEWS, I want to offer you guys something in return! So, since I can't send you all delectable chocolates, I'll just write you guys a FanFiction piece! And to make sure it's something you guys will like, I've uploaded a poll to my profile. So go and vote on what you like, and I'll get it up to you as soon as I can! Another HUGE thank you to my lovely beta **SubtleSpark**! I really appreciate all the effort and hard work she puts into looking at my rough stuff and the diligence with which she makes it better. :)_

_Reviews: Thanks to **Serafina Sky **(who is delightfully consistent in reviewing),** Book-Devourerx **(whom I am happy to see is joining us),** PandaKatie **(cause she's awesome)**, Amelia **(for reading my other story also), and** holymfwickee **(for totally making my day AND pushing this into 100 reviews)._

_Also: Did you guys see? I got picked for Fanfic Pick at Muttations Podcast! *Squee* Check it out at **muttations(dot)wordpress(dot)com/** down at the bottom. x)_

CHAPTER 12: ENTWINED IN A FIGHT

Peeta woke with a start. He couldn't say for certain the time of day—it was still dark—or how long he had been sleeping. Only that a cannon blast had woken him. At the end of the day, he would know whom that cannon was for, but for now, he just knew for sure that nine were dead.

He didn't crawl out from his hiding place immediately. It was one of those moments where he was trying to wrap his head around what to do next. Strategy and planning and the fact that he was here, in the Games, while people died around him... It was a bit much to wake up to.

Still, he couldn't hide forever.

So, he rolled out from beneath the bush he had chosen as his shelter for the night and fell into a crouch. He looked around again, but nothing seemed any different than when he had gone to sleep the night before. It was still dark, damp, and thickly forested.

He stood, stretching out muscles that were sore from his position and the tension from the day before. Time to get serious.

In all honesty, he couldn't even remember the direction he had originally come from. The Cornucopia could have been any which way now, so he picked a path arbitrarily. His main priority was still water, wasn't it? And any plants that might be edible. He had spent some time at the plant identification station—at Katniss' insistence—but wasn't sure that he could really distinguish between safe and poisonous.

He let out a small laugh. Wouldn't it just be his luck to die because he ate a stupid poison berry?

The laugh didn't last. Images of Katniss and Gale in the arena, foraging and coming across something more deadly than the rest... He shook his mind free and chose to go left.

His boots sank into the ground, slipping in mud and decaying plant matter. The air felt heavy and thick with moisture, though there was no actual water in sight. It was still muggy and hot, insects buzzing all around him. Before he had gone more than twenty paces, he was already perspiring, his hair hanging damp on his face and in his eyes.

He was using his hands to navigate, his palm moving from one tree to the next in hopes that he was getting closer to... something. Anything, at this point. Anything that wasn't darkness.

…

It had been two, maybe three hours since he had awoken when he heard it. A loud commotion to his right that sounded like someone stomping through the forest. Screams followed it—a girl's he thought. He had two options: keep going and ignore the sound, preserving his own life first, or head towards the sound to whoever was crying out and...

He didn't know 'and what.' But regardless of what came after the and, he found that he couldn't just keep going. In a moment of poor decision making, he changed his course and ran towards the scream. He burst into a small clearing just in time to watch as the girl from Five dodged two spinning discs that had razor edges. They lodged into a tree just seconds after Five had moved. The one doing the throwing was the boy from Eight—Monigan was his name, Peeta thought—and he was already moving in towards Five, pulling out what looked like a short handed ax. The boy was clumsy with it, obviously not trained with that particular weapon, and only managed a slice on Five's arm. The girl proved that, once again, she was quicker than he was and rolled away before he could attack again.

Peeta couldn't just stand and watch—Katniss was probably yelling at the TV screen as she watched him. Diving into the fray, Peeta grabbed the wrist of Monigan as he pulled back for another swing. Surprised, the boy shifted around, twisting his arm in an odd angle, and attempted to yank back his hand. Peeta held fast though and put more pressure into his grip. A combination of that pressure and Monigan's own awkward position made his hand drop the ax.

Monigan's left hand came around swinging, hitting Peeta squarely in the jaw. It was a solid blow and stung, but it wasn't the first time Peeta had taken a hit to the face, and he did little more than take a single step back. Using the hand he still had a grip on, Peeta yanked the other boy forward and put his neck in a choke hold between his elbow and shoulder.

The boy struggled, getting his other hand free and aimed several well placed punches at Peeta's stomach. It was enough to push Peeta back, making him trip over a loose root. The two boys tumbled into the mud and struggled, Monigan on top. Peeta managed an elbow to the boy's face, but Monigan just slipped his hands up around Peeta's throat and squeezed. Peeta gasped for breath and—

Suddenly, Monigan's grip loosened and released. Peeta could breathe again. The boy went limp on top of Peeta, who automatically rolled the other boy off and scooted back a little. Protruding from the base of Monigan's skull was the short-handled ax he had dropped earlier. Peeta looked up to see the girl from Five standing over the body with wild eyes and a wounded shoulder.

She glanced at Peeta for only a second before retrieving the ax and dashing off into the woods.

Peeta stared after her, telling himself not to look at the body that was not a foot from him. A cannon sounded in the distance. Ten dead.

In the end, Peeta walked away with a bloody lip and a new grasp on just what the Games were.

…

The fight in the forest had shaken Peeta more than he would like to admit. Suddenly, the death felt real. He hadn't seen the massacre at the Cornucopia, hadn't witnessed the bloody battle. But he had seen the ax sticking out of the boy from Eight, bloody trickling from the wound. Had seen the half-crazed look on the girl from Five's face. Still felt the sting on his face where a bruise was forming.

Suddenly, finding water didn't seem as important—although thirst had started burning the back of his throat a while ago—and the thought of food made his stomach churn uncomfortably.

He should have thought to have grabbed the ax before Five did. A weapon suddenly seemed a lot more practical now. But he'd been so... surprised by the entire thing. Hadn't had the time to process. And in the end, did he really think he could have done what Five had done?

Although the part of Peeta that wished desperately to _remain_ Peeta wanted to say no, he thought of the choking hands clenched around his neck. Of losing air rapidly... Yes, Peeta decided. He would be able to use that ax when it came down to it. He was sure that, as much as he'd like to say he could be above all of this, he would in the end kill just like the rest.

They were all the same in the end.

Instead of dwelling on the darkness hiding inside of them all, he pushed himself to keep moving. Focused on the thirst he felt, because it would keep him going until it killed him.

…

Hours later and Peeta felt dehydrated despite the moisture that clung to his shirt, making it sticky and heavy. He couldn't find water. Not a stream, a brook, a waterfall, a puddle... Nothing. Not a drop. Honestly, he didn't think he could find the trees beside him and the ground beneath his feet in this darkness.

The burning at the back of his throat had taken on a desperate note. Back in Twelve, when even his merchant-class family was short on food and he felt the ache of hunger, he had never wanted for water. That, at least, was in supply.

But here it seemed that despite the lush vegetation, there were no water sources. At least, none that Peeta could find.

His foot caught against a root protruding from the ground and he slipped, skidding down an incline of mud and moss. When he came to a stop at the ground below, he didn't bother getting up. He just rested there and let exhaustion pull him under.

He could rest here for a moment...

He felt the drop touch his eyelid and thought he couldn't be sweating that much, could he? Not here, resting as he was in a pool of mud. But another drop hit his cheek and then one touched his lips. His tongue flicked out automatically and tasted water.

Water.

His eyes snapped open and that's when it finally fell down heavy. Water. _Rain_. It crashed down on him in sheets, so heavy that he couldn't see a few inches past his face, but he didn't care. He leaned his face up to the sky and opened his mouth, tasting the sweet, sweet moisture.

The basin he had slipped into began to fill up with water, leaving Peeta now sitting in a rapidly filling puddle of mud. He sloshed a bit while getting to his feet, and held out his hands to catch the drops, swallowing them quickly as his cupped hands filled.

If he could figure out how to collect the rain water and carry it with him, that would be a good plan, but he wasn't sure how to do it. Not until he felt his jacket getting heavier as the rain continued. He realized that it wasn't just the material getting soaked that was adding to the weight. It was the hood hanging at his neck that seemed to be heaviest at all.

Peeling out of his soaking wet jacket, he found that the hood was mostly dry, made from a slick material that allowed the water to simply slide off of it. Letting a smile cross his face, he ripped out the seams that held the hood to the jacket. He slipped the jacket back on and held out the hood. Sure enough, it started to collect water. He was so relieved he could have laughed. When it was full to the brim, he carefully pulled the drawstrings tight and tied them together. He pulled off some of the leaves from a nearby tree and used them as a makeshift lid to cover the small opening that peeked out from the scrunched up edges, then tied the whole thing to his belt.

It would leak, he was sure of that. But maybe it would be enough to keep him going when the rain stopped.

Not that it looked like it would be doing that anytime soon. He was now standing in water that was up to his knees. Getting out of this ditch was probably a good idea. Especially considering he couldn't swim and wasn't too sure he could float either.

He turned back to the wall of moss and mud that he had slid down earlier and tried to find purchase with his hands. They sank into the stuff; he found it a lot more difficult to get himself out than it had been to get himself in. Every time it seemed he had gotten a good enough hold in to dirt, he would start climbing only to slip and slide back down into the basin of water.

The rain didn't let up.

Cursing, he tried again with the same result. Wouldn't it be just fitting to drown after he had spent the last day and a half dehydrated?

He tried once more and managed to gain a few feet, but it didn't last. His fingers slipped through the mud, finding a plant root, only to unearth it and drag it down back into the water with him. It had filled to the point where he submerged completely when he fell. Frantically, he waved his arms wildly through the water, managing to find the muddy bottom with his boots and push himself back up. The water was up to his shoulders.

With a touch of panic, he realized he wasn't getting out of this.

Digging at the wall of mud with his feet below the water, and his hands above he tried and tried, but it wasn't working. He couldn't even get himself halfway out of the water anymore. It was getting higher, his chin just barely above the surface and the rain wasn't letting up. In just a few more minutes it would be above his chin, covering his mouth and then his nose and he wouldn't be able to do anything...

A spatter of mud hit his face and he looked up. A short-handled ax was lodged in the mud about a foot above his head. Tied to it was a rope or vine or _something_.

"Grab it!" a voice called from above.

Peeta couldn't make out the features of its owner, but he knew it was a girl and he recognized the ax. Pushing himself up just enough to reach out, he grabbed hold of the ax. The rope went taught and he felt himself starting to move upwards. Using his feet—still slipping and sliding in the mud—the leverage of ax and rope was just enough to let him climb up out of the waterhole.

He reached the edge and a hand grabbed his. With an impressive show of strength, she heaved him the rest of the way up. Peeta collapsed in a puddle of mud—shallow, thank god—next to the girl from Five.

Both breathing heavy, Peeta looked at her. "Thanks."

She gave him half a smile. "Right back at'cha."

He laughed a bit. "Allies?"

She nodded. "Name's Spencer."

"Peeta."


	16. INTERMISSION 4

_A/N: So... I haven't been able to reach my beta lately (I'm sure it's just life getting in the way; it happens to me all the time), so I decided I'd go ahead and get this one posted, because I feel bad for not updating for a while. It's a katCAM, so bear with me. I have the next chapter already written, but I'm going to wait and see what SubtleSpark is up to before it gets posted._

_Reviews: I'm behind on responding! Bad Missi! But, a few quick responses._

_First, I know you all are DYING to know what happened in Katniss' Games. And I keep promising you'll get the dirt here pretty soon. Soon, is probably several more chapters away. (hides) To Serafina Sky: Fight scenes suck. Epically. I hate writing them, I just have to do it so I trudge through for the sake of my lovely readers. ;) Glad my efforts are appreciated._

_Second, I know a lot of you want to know what's the what with Madge... You'll get a smidgeon of her in the next chapter or so, but not a lot. She'll pop up a couple of more times, but I haven't decided if she and Peeta will have a direct run in yet. Most likely, they will._

_Also, I think I've said this before, but I'll say it again for good measure: I don't actually hate Gale. I'm rather fond of him, but he's just not the one for Katniss. Him dying just worked with the story, that's all. So, Gale-haters are welcome, but this wasn't written specifically for you. x)_

_**GO. VOTE. IN. THE. POLL.** It's in my profile and currently at a tie. I'll close it by this coming Friday, so please, vote._

INTERMISSION: katCAM

In a lot of ways, I felt like I was haggling at the Hob again every time the Hunger Games came around. Because now that I was a strange mixture of "outsider" and "insider" I got to join in on the Capitol's "fun."

I preferred the Hob.

Where once my haggling had come in the form of trading game for money and other goods I couldn't get on my own, now I was bargaining and begging from rich suitors for the precious gifts they could send my tribute. And whatever the prices were for the sponsors—higher the greater the item and the father into the Game it got sent—they were _always_ inevitably high for us mentors as well.

I never asked what it was Haymitch did to get people to sponsor his tributes—it's not like it was a frequent occurrence to begin with—but today, on the second day of the Games, I saw him out of the veranda talking with a jovial looking older gentlemen dressed in a purple, sparkling suit with wildly twisted hair that could have been designed to look like fire.

Fire styles had been overly popular since my Games.

Although they appeared casual, there was an undeniable urgency in whatever Haymitch was saying. I could tell only because I had been around the man more times than I preferred.

I couldn't hear them, the noises of the Capitol party—a social mixer, Cinna had called it—drowning out any words that might have reached my ears. These gatherings were done in excess during the Games, designed as opportunities for the mentors to mingle with the rich at the Capitol in order to win over sponsors. I always hated these events, but couldn't _not_ go. That simply wasn't an option.

So Cinna put me in a slinky, maroon colored dress that made me look as though blood were pouring down my body in steady streams. A long cut raced up from the hem of the dress to touch my upper thigh and the heels I wore were a strange, snake-skin black. The neckline plummeted down my front to the base of my ribcage, outdone only by the bare expanse of my back.

This would not have been Cinna's first choice, I could tell by the frown he wore as he helped me into the dress. He had always had a touch of class that most of the Capitol seemed to lack, and kept me in relative modesty, emphasizing my "goods" as Haymitch called them, instead of putting them on display. But the Powers that Be—Snow—had insisted on something risque.

I knew why, too. It was no secret to me that we were selling ourselves more than our tributes to the crowd.

And to both Cinna and Snow's credit, it was certainly working. I hadn't been left by myself since I entered the room. Eyes raked over me hungrily, eagerly, and I never let myself go so far as to think what that hunger meant.

I used to envy the male victors. Used to think that they had it easier—no one was putting _their_ bodies on display—until two years ago during my second year of mentoring.

I had noticed Finnick Odair, it was impossible _not_ to, and he had always come off as frivolous, vain, and a little too flirty for my liking. I had always tended to avoid him when possible, and that party two years ago had been no different.

I was fifteen and Cinna's original dress choice—a little sun dress with a big poofy bow that looked ridiculous to me, all a yellow the color of daisies—was discarded and he was told to put me in something else. The new dress was flashy, sparkly, seemed to be made of sheer material that concealed only because of the shiny jewels that were sewn into the fabric. It was a bright red that encouraged attention.

Cinna had frowned at the new dress, but couldn't seem to do anything about it. The only thing he didn't make me wear were the tall glittery heels that were supposed to go with it. I got to wear the flats instead.

That dress had caused a lot of staring and a lot of whispering. It made me nervous, tightened my stomach in ways I didn't quite understand. It was the first time I had really noticed the hunger hiding in the multicolored eyes surrounding me.

That day could have ended very badly.

My tribute had been a girl that year. An eighteen-year-old girl from the Seam whom I had seen around a few times, but never talked to. She was gangly and small from malnutrition, her family was mostly dead, she had no siblings, and she had this broken look in her eyes. Even when she stood, she was hunched over her stomach, spine showing in a long line down her back.

I thought I had seen her at Croy's more than once.

It was almost impossible to get any of the sponsors to even consider her, but I tried anyway. Me in that stupid, frivolous, skanky dress and my little girl flats and my carefully curled brown hair and my shiny make-up. I didn't know what I was doing, couldn't have guessed. My mind just didn't work like that.

But Finnick knew, Finnick had guessed. His mind couldn't help but work like that now.

So when he saw me from across the room as I spoke to some blue-haired old man that should have had wrinkles, but had gotten rid of them so many times his face had begun to look like a piece of fabric stretched too tight against a skull, he moved to intercept me. I didn't know why at the time.

I remember that the man's grin had been like a tear in his face-fabric and that I had been so disgusted by it's appearance that I wanted to do something to make it disappear.

The man had put his hand on my bare arm; his nails were a bright blue with white tips. The tear in his face widened. His eyes gleamed. There was something dark in his voice as he whispered something that I didn't understand. He leaned forward, ready to repeat the words in my ear. I couldn't lean back. His lips were almost touching my skin and I wanted to run from him.

And then Finnick was there, making apologies and charming excuses and saying something about how I had promised him a dance earlier. A lie. His hand gently tugged at my elbow and I let him pull me away from the thing that couldn't have been a man, but might have been pure evil.

"Our little bird should be more careful," he chided with a smile, his voice light and breathy as always. But there was something terrified in his eyes that I didn't understand yet. "Wouldn't want break your wings."

Since that day, I have decided that I owe Finnick Odair for the kindness he showed me, and the horrors he's seen.

…

There were screens everywhere around the room, so that the guests could still keep track of the action in the Games. I had begrudgingly done so and managed not to punch anyone when Peeta first got himself stuck in a ditch, _then_ managed to find himself an ally.

I considered that a personal victory.

Now I just had to figure out how to get him sponsors, because that was all I could do. And I hated feeling helpless. So, with one eye on the screen and Peeta, and the other on my audience of Capitol creatures, I attempted to mingle.

"...such _lovely_ tributes this year," someone of an indeterminate age, gender, and species informed me. "Still not as _spectacular_ as yours, of course." The she-man-thing giggled flirtatiously and batted her or his eyelashes at me.

I resisted the urge to hurl.

Putting on my best fake smile—Cinna always had me practice in a mirror before going to these things, and it was a damn good idea—and thanked her-him-it as graciously as I could.

"I have confidence in my tribute," I told It. "Peeta's tougher than people think."

True. Although Peeta's first reaction usually was one of passivity and kindness, that didn't mean that he didn't have a certain fire in him. I had seen it in the form of anger—I seemed to spark that in _all_ people—and beneath the anger might have been passion. Those were two things I could work with.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peeta trudge through the darkness, chatting quietly with his ally, Spencer. On another screen was Madge. Her arm was bruised, her face had small scratches, but she was mostly alright and still forging ahead determinedly.

I was surprised she had lasted this long.

Here at the Capitol, the It seemed to consider my words. It tapped it's finger exaggeratedly against it's chin, and puckered it's lips. Eyes glittering, it gave me a thorough once over, and smiled wickedly.

"Do you know him well?"

I worked to keep my face blank. No, I didn't know Peeta well. I knew him barely at all. Though we went to the same school for thirteen years—I had stopped attending quickly after my victory in the Games—lived in the same district for seventeen, and inevitably saw each other around the market, we hardly ever interacted. My experiences with Peeta Mellark included twice with the bread and once in the market. He stuck mostly to the merchant kids, which made perfect sense, seeing as how he was one of them. The most we really had in common had been Madge...

"Well enough to know that he's a fighter."

Maybe a lie. I didn't know that Peeta was a fighter, wasn't sure that, when it came down to it, Peeta would really fight to get out of that arena alive. I thought he might fight for _someone_ else. For Madge. But whatever he was planning, _I_ was going to fight to get _him_ out.

"I see..." It seemed to be after something, the smile revealing pearly white teeth behind lavender lips, but I didn't know what it was. I was so inept at this sort of thing and it had stopped being funny years ago. "Well, perhaps I might be willing to sponsor someone who seems to have won _your_ favor."

It winked at me and walked towards the counter where It could register to be a sponsor, hopefully for Peeta.

I didn't understand what It had been talking about. My favor? What did that have to do with anything? Every tribute I had trained to this day had had my favor. I had worked as hard as I could _every year_ to get them home alive.

Even if I had failed.

I frowned.

Suddenly anxious, I glanced around the room looking for Haymitch. He wasn't where I had left him earlier, no longer talking to the Man in Purple. Not at the table lavished with food and drink—where he usually was during the Hunger Games—and not annoying Effie with atrocious table manners. Instead, all I saw was Peeta. Sweet, kind, innocent Peeta smiling at the girl from Five who was too tall for him, gangly and awkward and maybe pretty.

I tried not to let the anxiety get to me.

They were talking together, the girl still had her ax, the rain was still pouring, they were talking and smiling like they were old friends and I couldn't decide if I wanted to like her and _damnit where was Haymitch?_

I felt like throwing up. I never ate at these things from a combination of not trusting the food and not trusting my own stomach. There was nothing to purge, but I still felt the acid burn the back of my throat. I was breathing heavily, my heart going erratically and I just really wanted to find Haymitch, because now it was Madge's face on the screen.

Sweet Madge. My friend Madge. The soft-spoken Madge. The pretty Madge. _Peeta's_ Madge.

There was a rock. Their sleeping schedules were off. There was a crunch. The rain stopped. Blood poured from the wound. It had started to drip, drip dry. She was dead.

I swallowed back the bile.

"It never gets easier," Finnick whispered in my ear, his cheek nearly pressed to mine. "...deciding what delectable goody we should go for."

We were standing at the table of food and I knew he said that last part, because they were listening. They were always listening. He couldn't let anyone see that the Games were hard on him, that they were hard at all of us. So he hid what he was saying. Finnick was good at twisting words.

My stomach churned. So was Peeta.

* * *

><p><em>AN: As just a side note, I MADE MOCKINGJAY CUPCAKES! I took some pictures and they're posted on my LJ. x) In case anyone was wondering. Link in my profile._


	17. Chapter 13

_EDIT: I posted the right chapter, but the wrong document, so this is the updated chapter with a couple of additions to it. I'd suggest reading through it again. x) Sorry about that, totally my bad!_

_A/N: Reviews, my lovelies, are so very appreciated! :) You guys make my day._

_Review Replies:_  
><em>About half of you guessed it and most of you were confused about it! So, here's what happened in the Arena from Peeta's POV. Hope it all makes sense (and maybe makes the last chapter make more sense, too).<em>  
><em>Notes on Gale: Hmm, give it... maybe 5 or 6 more chapters? That's my estimate before we get a close look at what happened in Katniss' Games and what went down with Gale. (It's a rough estimate, so don't kill me if I'm wrong. T_T)<em>  
><em>Thanks so much to all of you guys who have stuck things out with me thus far and to all you new readers, too! I really appreciate it.<em>

CHAPTER 13: IN THE LION'S HEAD

The rain had paused after several long, water-logged hours. Peeta and his new ally, Spencer, had spent most of it inside a hollowed out log that was set at an angle on a low sloping hill. The slope was enough to keep them from drowning—Peeta was more than a little wary of the lower parts of the arena after his near-drowning—and the log was barely enough to keep them from being too obviously spotted by outsiders.

Not that anyone could see _anything_. Between the weather and the darkness, they all might as well have been blind.

When the rain had slowed to a trickle, they had emerged from their hiding place. Stretching out the kinks earned from awkward sitting arrangements, they started forging ahead.

"I hate this constant night," Peeta whispered to Spencer, mostly because the night made him feel like things were supposed to be quite. And he didn't want anyone else hearing them. "Makes me feel like we're being watched."

He glanced around, but still couldn't see anyone or anything beyond a few feet in front of him. It was hard to even make out the girl walking beside him, although he remembered her from the training center.

She wasn't what Peeta could call 'pretty' exactly. She had frizzy orange-ish colored hair—was the term auburn? Strawberry? Peeta didn't think the girl looked like a strawberry personally—and light brown eyes which seemed to have no lashes at all. Her face was covered in light freckles, there was a dark mole beneath her left eye, and her nose was petite with a wide base. Her lips were too thin and long, as though her smile might take up most of her face. Everything just seemed _awkward_. But her fingers were long and nimble, her muscles slim, but decidedly there, and she had already proven herself to be agile. She had almost an inch in height on Peeta, tall for a girl.

"I know what you mean," Spencer muttered in a voice that was deeper than it should have been for a girl. "It's like someone's always followin' us or something."

At some point Spencer had taken the lead, swiping at vegetation every now and again with her ax. The weapon should have made Peeta nervous—technically she could turn on him at any time without provocation—but it didn't. He was okay with her having the weapon, because maybe he was starting to trust her. Or maybe he just didn't think he would use it as effectively.

They were even, really. He had saved her life, she had saved his. Or maybe she had saved his twice by killing the boy from Eight...

Regardless, whatever debts might have been incurred were certainly paid now and he shouldn't place too much confidence in his new, capable ally. But he did. And maybe it was more about the idea of having companionship, someone there on his side in the arena, than anything else.

Peeta just didn't want to have to do this alone.

She was pushing forward, swiping through a particularly dense patch when he heard a yelp and she had disappeared. Startled, Peeta rushed forward and nearly fell over the same ledge that Spencer was now dangling from.

"Whoa."

"A little help here," Spencer called up to him in a sing-song voice that belied her panic. Her fingers were losing their grip.

Peeta dropped down to his knees and reached down, grabbing Spencer's arm with both his hands and pulling. Slowly, Peeta managed to pull her back up to safety.

Panting from the shock of nearly falling, Spencer nodded at Peeta, wide-eyed. "Thanks."

"Yeah, sure."

So were they now even? Or was this a new debt? Did it even matter? 'Cause at the rate they were going, Peeta didn't think he could keep up without a score card...

They both turned to where she had just nearly fallen to her doom. The cliff overlooked a large valley, concealed by trees and contained by cliff faces that surrounded the entire area. Off to the side, a river of rain runoff spilled over one of the cliffs and into a basin below. Next to that basin was a tall, ancient structure made of long columns of stones piled one on top of another. The structure was overgrown with plants and vines, nearly blending into the overall terrain.

"Peeta," Spencer said, glancing at him sideways with a grin on her face. "I think we've just found our new base camp."

Peeta wasn't as sure as she seemed to be, but it was as good a plan as either of them had since the start of the Games. Now all they had to do was figure out how the hell they were going to get down there...

They walked the edge of the valley, looking for a starting point to get down into the basin. It was slow going, the darkness making it difficult to find much of anything. Sometimes, it looked as though they had found a good place to begin their descent and they would get on their hands and knees to get a closer look. But every time it was a bust, the path turning out to be nothing more than a trail the runoff from the rain had made during the day.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Peeta said apprehensively. "I mean, shouldn't we want the high ground or something?"

Spencer sent him an irritated look. "You planning on going on the offensive?"

Peeta shook his head.

"Then I'm more interested in finding a good hiding place," she told him. "And that." She pointed at the old, overgrown structure by the river of runoff. "Looks like a pretty damn good hiding place to me."

With a sigh, Peeta nodded his head. That seemed true anyway. The structure looked large in relation to everything else, but the green vegetation crawling up it's sides and roof made it blend. Probably, there were lots of places to hide in there. And shelter, which was a good idea any way you slice it.

"Right. Okay."

They continued their search. Nearly halfway around the rim of the cliff face, they came across a narrow, steep path that sloped downward. It wouldn't be an easy trail to follow, but it looked like it lead all the way to the bottom of the valley. After that, they would just have to navigate their way to the ruins.

…

If either of them had kept track of the number of times they had slipped and nearly fallen down that slope to their death, it would have been close to fifty between them. So when they finally reached the bottom, it was a sweet relief.

Of course, as soon as they did, Peeta couldn't help the feeling of being trapped. Of having eyes above him, watching, waiting. It was probably paranoia. Spencer and himself were little more than specks of red and gold at the base of a cliff. But he still couldn't shake his unease.

He'd been feeling it all day.

Although he didn't want to remain there, because of said unease, he couldn't force himself to move immediately. It had been a long trek through the forest, a short near-death experience, followed by a laborious trip down into the valley. They needed to rest.

Apparently thinking the exact same thing, Spencer arbitrarily picked a spot on the ground and proceeded to plop heavily down upon it. Peeta had showed her his makeshift water canteen earlier and she had mimicked the idea. Now, she untied it from her waist—about half of it had spilled during the climb down—and she took several large gulps.

Peeta followed suit, untying his hood and taking several drinks, until it was nearly empty. Now that the rain had mostly stopped, they would want to refill with the runoff while it lasted. He sank down beside Spencer and tried to keep his eyes from drooping.

There were several moments of silence as the pair just _rested_.

"Is Five anything like this?" Peeta interrupted, not looking at her. He just didn't want to listen to silence anymore. His nerves were too taut to allow for it.

"Like this? Oh yeah, sure, my friends and I always try to kill each other while climbing cliff faces under a constant cover of night."

Peeta lolled his head over to look at her. She was staring at him pointedly with an expression that said, "Seriously?" He let out a small laugh.

"I mean, like, trees and humidity and—"

"I know what you meant." She sighed heavily. "No, Five isn't really anything like this. It's all buildings and hardware and cold weather. Even the ground is different here. This place," she gestured to the arena surrounding them. "it's nothing like home."

Peeta nodded. "Yeah, Twelve isn't really like this either. We've got trees, beyond the fence, but we don't go outside the fence." Not unless you were Katniss Everdeen.

"You miss it." She didn't ask it like a question.

"Yes," Peeta admitted. "Not the poverty or how we're all so busy trying to survive we don't even talk to each other." Not that he was thinking of Katniss or anything. "But I miss home, and baking with my dad and my brothers." He didn't mention his mom. "I miss my friends."

"Yeah, well, I don't miss it."

Peeta's eyes grew wide and he stared incredulously. Ignoring his expression, she continued.

"I don't miss how everyone's got their nose pressed against cold metal, working on tiny little things, so busy with themselves that they never notice what's staring them in the face." She said it with anger, clearly thinking of someone specific. "I don't miss how you can't help but feel alone there."

Peeta didn't say anything in response. Although things were always hard in Twelve, he had never spent his days there really _alone_. He had friends—Madge was one of them unfortunately—and brothers, his dad, and even the other people in the District. He didn't know them all by name, but since his dad owned a business, he interacted with a lot of them.

But what really worried Peeta was that Spencer was voicing this in the first place. In the Games, you didn't badmouth your own district. Not if you ever thought you were going to see it again...

They fell into silence once more. Spencer was the one to break it this time.

"I haven't heard a cannon for a while." Worry laced through her deep voice.

Peeta thought about it. She was right; he hadn't heard one for a while either. Not since Monigan, the boy tribute from Eight that Spencer had killed. Peeta didn't bring this up. "Maybe we missed it during the rain?"

He didn't mean to sound so hopeful. It wasn't that he exactly wanted to know that someone else out there was dead. But they both knew what would happen if more killing didn't start happening. Soon.

"Yeah, maybe," Spencer muttered.

Suddenly not feeling like they should linger, the two of them heaved themselves back onto their feet.

Frowning, Spencer pointed vaguely at a diagonal to their right. "I think it was that way?"

She formed it at as question. Peeta just shrugged. "As good a guess as any," he replied.

"Right," Spencer sighed.

They were both still exhausted, but they moved anyway.

…

They stood on the far side of the dwindling river, filling up their hoods and trying to avoid getting any mud in there. It probably wasn't clean and safe like it was when it came in the form of rain, but it would have to do for now. Later, they could figure out a more permanent container to house a larger quantity of water. Really, they should have been doing that right then and there, before the river stopped moving altogether and became stagnant and completely undrinkable.

But they were tired. As in, they were going to drop any second now and they didn't want to do it on the far side of the river in relative openness. They had left the tree line about ten paces back.

They were trying to _not_ make it easy for the other tributes.

So with what little water they could carry, they crossed the flowing water towards the forest on the other side.

When they hit the treeline, it happened.

It came without warning. Suddenly, out of nowhere, it was just there. A blinding light that captured the entire arena. They had spent so long in the darkness that they had to squint against the brightness, shielding their eyes with their hands.

In this new light, the trees had a bright, green color, with a darker moss covering the deep brown of their trunks. The mud near the river looked like a fair-colored sand, almost white, and the water looked so clear it almost didn't have any color at all. The cliff faces were stripped with all different shades of red and brown, looking like a strange flag for a foreign country. Up farther, from where Peeta and Spencer had come from, the trees were a darker green and contrasted against the baby-blue sky.

It was the clearest blue Peeta had ever seen.

It lasted maybe fifteen minutes, and then just as suddenly as it had arrived, it vanished. Darkness returned, darker than before, because no one was prepared for it.

But every tribute left in the Game had seen that blinding fifteen minutes of light, and if any of them had been on the edge of that cliff looking down...

"We should head inside," Peeta whispered.

"Yeah, we really should," Spencer replied.

Together, they half-felt their way through the trees and farther into the ruins of their newest camp. After maybe ten minutes of wandering the premise, they finally just picked a spot down a hallway that was a dead end and put their backs against the wall, slipping down to the floor.

Still humming with the excitement of _light_, they both kept their eyes open for a long time, despite their exhaustion. They were both hoping that, somehow, the light would come back and it would race down the hallways to them.

They fell asleep waiting for it.

…

When he awoke, Spencer was dead, her skull crushed in, leaking a dark, dark red that had already started to dry. Sometime in the night, another tribute had died, his _ally_, and somehow exhaustion had let him sleep not only through the murder, but the cannon that sounded her last breath.

On shaky legs, he stood. He had had just enough time to grow attached to Spencer. Enough time to develop a strange friendship of mutual dependence. And now she was dead.

What had Katniss told him about making allies he would be hesitant to lose?

Although at the time, he had been sure she was referring to Peeta not being able to kill whosoever he happened to ally with—his stomach churned at the idea of killing Madge—but maybe she had been talking about something a little more fundamental. Maybe she had meant that it would hurt too much when the time came to lose them, no matter if they died by his hand or another's.

Dead was dead.

Numbly, Peeta moved away from the dead body of District Five's female tribute. Breathing uneven, he shuffled backward. How would they remove the body? His mind wondered of its own accord. Would the hover craft have to fly in through an entrance? Would it just crash through the ceiling and make its own opening?

He tripped, stumbling back into a wall where he finally turned away and ran. Down the hallways, about half-certain where he was going, until he hit the opening that they had entered through together. There, he paused, taking in deep gulps of air. His eyes were clenched shut, his hand reached out to lean on a wall for support.

When he opened them, he saw it.

The little parachute was nearly invisible, just a strange bright dot in an otherwise dark sky. It floated down to the ground at the entrance to the ruins not five feet from where Peeta stood. There was no one else around, so it was for either him or Spencer.

Spencer was dead.

Peeta took a deep breath. He had sense enough to glance around at the general area before emerging from his 'camp' and heading down to the silver container. With another quick check of his surroundings, he headed back inside. Walking down the stone corridors, he found where he and Spencer had fallen asleep.

Spencer's body was no longer there.

Gathering what little he had—the ax that had belonged to his short-lived ally—Peeta headed back and made a left at the last fork in the corridor. He wasn't spending another night in the same spot he had been before. Sliding down against the wall, he stared at the container in his hand.

Katniss had gotten him a sponsor.

He didn't open it immediately—he didn't know what exactly he needed a sponsor for right then—and just kept staring at it thinking of Katniss and Madge and Spencer and his family and District 12 and how Spencer hadn't missed her home anyway. To his credit, he didn't cry. But he wanted to.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he scrunched up his eyes and reminded himself to breathe. This was what the Games were. They were death and loss. It shouldn't have surprised him. It shouldn't have mattered. He didn't even know the awkward, strange girl from Five that well anyway. She shouldn't have mattered to him.

But she did. And it hurt him that she was gone now. Even if it meant he had a stronger chance to win.

Opening his eyes, he looked back down at the container. He opened it, because he didn't know what else to do.

Unbelievably, he cracked a smile.

Inside was a loaf of fresh baked bread. Raisin nut. He had made it a thousand times at the bakery with his father. The smell was delicious and overpowering and not just because he was hungry.

It wasn't the most practical gift. Certainly it wasn't the best use of a sponsor's generosity. But right then, Katniss proved she was more perceptive than people gave her credit for, because it was exactly what Peeta needed.

To him, it was Katniss' reminder to come home.

_'You don't die, until I tell you to die.'_

* * *

><p><em>AN: This. Just. Kept. Getting. LONGER. Yeesh, lol. Hope you enjoyed! Stay tuned for the next installment!_


	18. INTERMISSION 5

_A/N: Just a short intermission chapter to keep you guys going! Sorry for the long wait, I just got back from Spring Break so I haven't had time to work on anything (no computer). The poll is officially closed and the winner by an overwhelming majority: A flashback scene from Katniss' reaping! I'll let you know when it's up and ready (not sure who's POV it'll be in just yet). Also, my beta has been under the weather of life stuff, so offer her your umbrella! She's back now though, so no worries! Um, I think that's all._

_Oh! And I'm super excited to see the movie! I posted a short video clip of getting ready by dressing up as Katniss on my LJ, so you guys can take a look at that if you want. (Be gentle, I'm really self-conscious about the way I look. xP)_

_Reviews:  
><em>_I promise there is a reason why Spencer died and Peeta did not (and not just because there would basically be no story left to tell if Peeta had died...) You guys will find out later on, and if not, I'll give you the gist. x)_

INTERMISSION: katCAM

"He needs something to keep him going," Haymitch muttered. "He's not like you and me."

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. _Not like you and me._ No, I decided. Peeta wasn't like us. Peeta was different and it wasn't just about being Merchant or Seam. There was something fundamentally _different_ about Peeta and I couldn't put my finger on it.

Haymitch must have figured I was struggling with this, because he barked a short laugh.

"Good people don't win the Games, sweetheart," Haymitch told me, not to be spiteful but to remind me the cost of Peeta's victory would likely be _Peeta_. And that was a problem, because I remembered that boy on the rooftop wanting nothing more than to keep that which made him _him_. He would never forgive me for sacrificing that, but it had been my plan from the beginning.

I didn't know how else to save him.

"There's a first time for everything," I mumbled.

"Not for this."

I frowned. Looking around at the other victors, mentors now leading children through their deaths. Were they all bad people, too? Was Finnick a bad person? I didn't think so, despite his reputation. I understood what that reputation was really about now and I knew how he felt about Annie, even if I didn't necessarily understand it. But he had won his Games, cleverly, too. Was Johanna a bad person? I had always thought so, but the last year or so I found myself wondering if things were that simple.

Since becoming a mentor I had learned pretty early on that things were never as simple as black and white. Unfortunately, those were the colors I saw the clearest. The shades of gray all looked the same to me.

"Give him something to remind him that he's gotta make it home."

And with that, Haymitch left me to figure things out on my own. I knew he was right, whatever it was he was dancing around. I knew that Peeta needed _something_ and as his mentor it was my job to give it to him. Unfortunately, I didn't know what that was and Haymitch probably couldn't tell me. He didn't know Peeta like I did.

Tugging at the end of my braid, I considered that. I _did_ know Peeta, didn't I? Better than I initially thought. I knew that he was a good person, that he was more sensitive and sentimental than I. That home meant something more to him than just a single person or survival. I knew that he was afraid of losing himself...

When the idea finally hit me, I thought it was ridiculous. Somehow I had managed to earn Peeta a couple of sponsors and now I was considering wasting their generous _donations_ on something as simple and ultimately frivolous as a loaf of _bread_?

It didn't make any sense to me.

Maybe that was why I did it.


	19. Chapter 14

**EDIT: I had a typo there at the end, so the number is Six not Nine. x)**

_A/N: I'm uber sorry for the wait! This one's... um, idk. I'm tired lol. Anyway, it is what it is, and I've got the next chapter pretty much ready after this, so yay! Thanks to all of you reviewers and readers and my lovely beta! And I owe you a chapter on Katniss' reaping! Which I will get out at some point here... In the near future. Probably after finals... Anyway, enjoy?_

_Woot for 200 reviews! You guys rock!_

CHAPTER 14: SAMSON HAD A FEELING

After Spencer, he couldn't stay there anymore. Not just because of the obvious danger it posed to him—someone had found them and whatever their reasons for leaving him alive, they still knew where he was—but also because he didn't want to think about her crushed skull, her dead body, the fact that he had been sleeping as she had been dying...

He didn't need reminders like that.

So with the remainder of the bread—Katniss' gift to him—in his pockets, Spencer's hand-ax slung across his back, and the remnants of his make-shift water container at his waist, he pushed forward leaving the ruined structure behind him. His first priority was always water, he remembered, but it was clear that the stream outside of the ruins was not a source. It had collected the water from the rains, but it was already stagnant and quickly drying up. He considered going back the way he came, but it would be a precarious climb at best. And really, where was he headed? He already knew there wasn't anything in that direction. Assuming he could even follow his original path. So instead, he choose to follow the quickly drying riverbed, hoping that it would lead him to a trickle of flowing water.

By the time he had reached the far facing cliff where he and Spencer had seen a waterfall of rain runoff, the stream beneath his feet was little more than damp soil. It was still darkness all around him, and though his eyes had adjusted, he still glanced up at the nightsky as though waiting for another flash of brilliance.

What the hell was that anyway? What was the point of a blinding flash of light? Maybe it was supposed to disorient them, he mused. Blind them so that their enemies could find them and kill them more easily. But that didn't seem to make a lot of sense to Peeta. Wouldn't they all suffer from the same effects? After all, they were _all_ stuck in a continuous night. Maybe someone had sunglasses.

He reached the cliff wall within the hour. It seemed to be completely vertical, and Peeta had his doubts about managing to get himself up it at all, much less having the stamina to make it all the way to the top. Still, he couldn't very well hang around in this basin forever and he had no intention of returning to the ruins. He could follow the wall around until he found a more suitable way to get up to the top, but who knew how long that could take? And then what? His initial idea had been to follow the river bed towards water. What if he couldn't even find it if he came up somewhere else? He remembered how dense the forest had been. Hell, Spencer had nearly walked straight off a cliff...

With a sigh, he resigned himself. He would have to go up here. It was his best bet for water, he reasoned.

He started at the base, hesitantly feeling his large hands around the rock slab looking for some sort of hand hold. When he found a couple of good ones, he began digging around with his feet. Tightening his grip and pushing with his legs, he started his way up. About two handholds above the ground and his hand slipped, sending him crashing back to the ground with a heavy "oomf." With a huff, he began again, a little to his left. He started the same way, first with solid handholds and then footholds and then slow, slow, slow going. Push with your legs, balance with your arms, make sure your holds are sturdy. Right hand up. Balance. Right foot up. Push. Left hand up. Balance. Left foot up. Push. Right, left, right, left, over and over again.

It seemed like he had finally gotten the hang of it. Already his limbs were tired, but he was making progress. A quick glance down confirmed it; about half way up from the ground. Which was a big chunk of space between him and the dirt. A lot of space that, should he slip, he would be careening through until he crashed heavily in a broken mess.

Not that he was concerned.

Swallowing heavily, he forced himself to look up in stead, and focus on the task at hand. He had to keep moving. Stopping here was _not_ a good idea. Because his hands weren't going to get stronger, his legs weren't going to get sturdier. He wasn't going to just _stop_ being tired by resting in the middle of a damn cliff wall.

Right hand up. Balance. Right foot—

He slipped. His right hand felt the handhold crack and crumble beneath his fingers, sending him sliding against the rock, hanging only by his left hand. His arm ached as his muscles strained against the sudden strain. He desperately scrambled to find a place to put his feet again and some place to reach out with his right hand, but his grip was giving out. He was shaking with the effort, breathing short and quick gasps, grunting with effort, and _his grip was giving out_.

"Shit."

As he felt his fingers peeling away from the one hold that was keeping him from falling to his death, he did something desperate. With his free right hand he reached back to Spencer's hand ax. As his hand spasmed and released, he swung the ax around above his head. Air whipped at his hair, tore at his clothing and he thought he was dead. That he would spend the last few seconds of his life falling and then with a loud thud, he would be dead. A canon would sound, his face would appear in the sky that night, and just like that District 12's male tribute would be no more.

But there was a clang of metal on rock and he stopped his downward motion. He glanced up. The ax was hitched on a jagged piece of rock jutting out from the cliff face. By sheer dumb luck, he was saved.

…

Peeta hefted himself tiredly over the edge, scrambling and slipping and grasping. He managed to fall safely onto his back, staring up at the night sky as he forced air in and out of his burning lungs. There was no way to tell how long it had taken him to climb. No sun to estimate, no stars to map by, just an empty expanse of dark blue sky that went on forever. Not that it mattered. How long it took him to accomplish a task didn't really affect the Games all that much. Spencer's death had granted him a little leeway with that. It bought him a little time to relax. Right. Because there's nothing more relaxing than scaling a cliff.

If he could, Peeta would have spent the rest of his life just laying there catching his breath. Unfortunately, if he did that the rest of his life would be significantly shortened and he wasn't having any of that. He had promised Katniss to fight for her, so that's what he had to do.

Even if it meant dragging his half-dead limbs to a sitting position so that he could gobble down what was left of the bread in his pockets. It wasn't much—especially after that much physical exertion—but it was all he had to work with at the moment. He washed down the bread with what little water he had left.

He took a minute to acknowledge how hungry he still was and admitted that water wasn't his only concern. If he went too much longer without proper nourishment, he wasn't going to put up much of a fight against anything—not the elements nor the other tributes.

With effort, Peeta forced himself up off the ground. It was time to get moving; staying out in the open like he was, wasn't smart. Although the treeline wasn't far and the density of the forest probably provided cover from anyone far enough away, it wasn't ideal for someone hiding just within that treeline. He was an easy target, and that was unacceptable. So he began to move again, dragging his sore legs forward against their stiffness.

At first, it was pretty easy going. The path the runoff was made obvious, an indentation in the earth of mud and debris, but as the night wore on, he found that it was becoming more and more difficult to even tell where he was going. Was this little slope where the runoff river started? Had he already passed it? Was the entire arena just one big dry riverbed emptying into the basin he had already found? Was the air getting thicker? Was his mouth getting dryer? Was he damp from sweat or from the water that seemed to hang in the air and elude him all at once?

He couldn't tell anymore.

In the distance, a canon sounded. Peeta paused, looked up to see birds scattering from the trees at the noise. How many was that now? Eleven? Twelve? He wondered who it was. A churning feeling in the pit of his stomach worried it was Madge. Although he hadn't deluded himself into thinking there was any way both he and Madge would make it out of the arena alive, he couldn't help but hope that if it wasn't him, it would be her.

Maybe it wasn't her, he reasoned. He started moving again, pushing aside branches and pushes and hanging vines that looked more like snakes—he hoped none of them were.

Madge didn't seem very intimidating. As far as he knew, she didn't have a lot of skills beyond that of manners and physical beauty. Which were fine and dandy for the Capitol, winning her sponsors here and there maybe, but not here in the arena. Not where there were tributes hunting her and the elements working against her. Here she would need something more.

With each passing step, his heart sank.

There wasn't much hope for Madge, really. Not much hope at all. He paused again.

"_Okay! I get it! I'm screwed, I'm useless, I'm worthless. I'm dead. There is nothing I can do that will make me any match against the other tributes. I can't even climb a goddamn tree!"_

No one was expecting him to do well, either. At least, Peeta hadn't been expecting it. But Katniss had been determined—still was, he assumed, back in the Capitol trying her hardest to win over the frivolous rich that resided there—and here he was, still alive.

Appearances could be deceptive, and that was the only consolation he could muster.

Continuing on was getting harder with each step he took. His eyes momentarily blurred and he wiped at his brow trying to clear them, but he still felt dizzy, unfocused. His foot caught against an exposed root and he nearly tumbled, his hand reaching out to catch a low-hanging branch just in time to keep him mostly vertical. He tried clearing his throat, hoping to alleviate the burning that had begun there, but it just made him notice the scratchiness.

He had to face it, he was exhausted. Maybe dehydration? Maybe hunger? Maybe he was just physically drained. He didn't know. All he knew was that he had to stop and rest. There was no way he was going to get any farther without collapsing.

Searching his surroundings, trying to focus, he found a suitable log set behind a bush that would provide him enough cover from the outside. Slipping to his knees, he rolled under the log and shimmied a little closer to the bush for cover. There, he let exhaustion take him.

…

Peeta awoke with a start to the sound of the Anthem playing. That told him at least what time it was, then he remembered the canon from earlier. Someone had died today. Blinking his sleep crusted, burning eyes, he pushed at the brush that covered him and looked up at the sky. The seal shone bright against the pure darkness and he watched closely.

Spencer's image appeared in the night sky, followed by the image of the boy from Nine.

The grip that had been attacking Peeta's chest relented, and he let a breath escape him. He hadn't realized how much he had been hoping it wasn't Madge.

He waited a moment longer, looking around with the scarce light of the boy's image, but still couldn't make out anything. It all looked the same nothing but forest. Forest, trees, vines, moss, grass—what did he know about any of it? Not a damn thing. He was useless out here, not like Katniss.

Katniss. Only thirteen and the winner of the Hunger Games. Only thirteen and able to—

He stopped himself. He didn't want to think about it. What had happened, had happened and he wouldn't hold it against her. It wasn't her fault—he had to believe that—and after spending what time he could with her at the Capitol, he was sure—_sure—_that beneath all that toughness, that hardness, that broken bitterness, was a girl worth loving.

And he did. He really, really did.

…

The second time Peeta awoke, it was once again to the anthem. Briefly, he panicked. How could he have _possibly_ slept that long? A full day? That wasn't good. There was too much he had to do—find water, figure out the food situation—how could he have slept that long? Although his sleeping schedule was off and it was impossible to tell when one day ended and another began, he was almost positive it wasn't time for a death toll. Regardless of his skewed internal clock, he was sure it had only been several hours since the last announcement.

Then he heard the voice.

There wasn't strictly speaking a lot of communications between the outside world and the arena. There was the death toll, announced at the end of each day by the anthem and the seal. And there were the little silver chutes that were sent in by a combination of sponsor and mentor. Then there was Claudius Templesmith. And there was only one reason for him.

A feast had been announced to the arena, meant to lure the tributes in to destroy one another. Apparently things were getting too boring for the Capitol audience. They wanted some action and this was the best way to do it.

Peeta had debated the idea for about half a second before dismissing it. Although hunger had begun to gnaw at him uncomfortably, he would stand a better chance trying to catch his own food than duke it out with a bunch of probably half-crazed tributes at a Feast. He would take his chances in the forest. He stared up at the seal, waiting. Hunger bit again at his stomach, but he didn't think it was enough to make him go to any feast. They were as bad—if not worse—than the Cornucopia at the beginning. There wasn't anything he thought he wanted badly enough to go head to head with the remaining tributes for.

But he listened anyway.

Templesmith's booming voice assaulted his ears. He might have covered them, just to block the obnoxious voice out, because it was so loud. But he didn't and he was glad, because the announcement did more than shock him:

_Tributes! This is the 75th Annual Hunger Games and those of you brave and resourceful souls who have managed to survive this long have the _privilege _and_ honor_ of participating in the Quarter Quell. You have done your districts proud to have made it this far! Your reward is this:_

_There has been a special alteration to the Games—_

Alteration? Did Peeta hear him right? In all the years of the Hunger Games, there had never been any _alterations_. That just didn't happen.

—_This year Tributes will find their Mentors on the battlefield!_

His heart dropped somewhere deep into his stomach; he felt like he was going to be sick. This couldn't be happening.

_Six mentors stepped forward, choosing to reenter the Games for the glory of battle!_

Choose. Six mentors _chose_ to reenter the Games? Peeta couldn't believe it. He didn't _want_ to believe it. This couldn't be the truth. He just couldn't accept it. But He knew it was. Somehow, he just knew. She was here. In the arena.

Peeta shut his eyes tightly, kneeling down to put his head between his knees. He tried to breathe but it was impossible.

Katniss was here.


	20. Chapter 15

_A/N: Aren't you glad I had this one mostly ready? x) Enjoy!_

_(Also, in case you missed the edit from the last one, it's six mentors, not nine. My bad!)_

**CHAPTER 15: FOXFIRE**

Katniss fidgeted, tugging at the silky material of her top. Another plunging neckline and open back that seemed to be designed to make Katniss uncomfortable as much as please the crowd.

It was the end of the second day. They were lined across the room in chairs set one after another. Katniss sat on the very end next to Haymitch, who was only about half as drunk as he usually was. Which was good; she wanted him to be in the best form possible to help Madge in the arena. Someone needed to be on her side, since Katniss couldn't be.

Katniss' tribute was Peeta and as per her deal with Haymitch, each of them could give their all to only one tribute. She would never let Haymitch make a choice or deal like he did before. She would never let him choose her twice.

This seating arrangement was not typical of the mentors. Gathering them all together at once was not the usual. It was more like the seating chart of the tributes during their interview. Their only one before the start of the Games. But the mentors were mostly behind the scenes at this point. Farther into the Game, as more tributes were killed off by their peers, the survivors' mentors would start explaining things like strategy or personal attachment. If they thought their tribute had a chance to win...

But even then, the mentors were interviewed separately or in District pairs. Nothing like this. Not lined up like they were about to go into the Games.

Katniss gave an involuntary shudder at the idea.

She relived her Game every night when she closed her eyes. When she drifted into sleep that was haunted with the faces of tributes past. When she opened her eyes to look around the room that belonged to her in Victor's Village, knowing that it was hers—not Gale's—because she was the better killer. Better than twenty-three other poor souls.

Twenty-three kids who didn't deserve to die.

_Except Marvel_, she thought bitterly. She wished she hadn't had the thought, but as it flitted through her head, she knew she believed it. He deserved to die. For what he did to Rue—so like little Prim—he deserved to die. At least it was quick, merciful.

"It is the Quarter Quell," President Snow announced to the audience that existed beyond the Colosseum sized auditorium. "It is a time to remember that Panem nearly crumbled under the senseless and traitorous actions of the Districts who went against the Capitol. A time to remember that we _sacrificed_ too much because of selfishness, because of _greed, _because of _pride_."

The mentors lined up in their little white chairs, said nothing, did nothing. No cheering like the crowd, no bowing of their heads like the Districts. No cringing like the parents of the tributes. Nothing. Just blank stares and motionless bodies.

They had stopped believing in the speeches of President Snow a long time ago.

"And, as is customary of the Quarter Quell, we have something _special_ in store for the people of Panem!" His smile was red, as though smeared with blood, and looked vicious enough that it could have been.

They watched, a sense of horror churning in their stomachs as memories of past Quells entered their minds. Katniss had not lived to see one; Haymitch had...

Snow's gloved hand entered the box, retrieving an old, weathered piece of folded up paper that surely was only made to look as old as it seemed. Traditionally, the paper was retrieved at the beginning, before tributes had even been named. But this year was different, though Katniss originally had no idea why. This year, Snow had waited until two days into the Games, after eight tributes had died at the Cornucopia, two more had lost their lives to carelessness and the hunting Careers, and one more to Madge's cleverness.

The reason for his waiting could not be something good.

When he opened the carefully folded piece of aged paper, his smile widened and his snake-like eyes twinkled in something far less innocent than mischief.

"_To remind us that even the most experienced reinforcements cannot help us,"_ he read in a voice that carried through speakers and televisions across the country. _"The 75__th__ Hunger Games offers us this: Those Victors who have had the honor of winning the Games have the option now to Reenter the Games and win again."_

Option. Option. The only word Katniss' mind could hang onto was _option_. Reenter the Games. What _idiot_ would ever voluntarily _reenter_ the Games? Few would do it the _first_ time around.

She had been an oddity, she reminded herself.

By making it optional, _surely_ no one would volunteer... But no, she had heard right. It was _option_ and _reenter_ and Snow did not order them—those poor, tortured, broken souls who sat in their little pristine white chairs—to go back. He did not order them to kill again.

And then she heard it: "And, in the interest of a little generosity," Snow added, as though he knew anything about _generosity_. "I will add this: To any mentor who stands with their tribute at the end of the Quarter Quell, both mentor _and_ tribute shall exit the Games alive. Honored for their valiant displays."

With that addition, he _did_ order them to kill again. One way or another was the only _option_ they really had in the matter...

They were signaled to rise from their seats. Katniss knew now why they had been arranged as they were, facing the crowd in a long row.

Black and white. It was all black and white and indeterminable shades of gray.

By choosing to not enter the Games again—by making the _sane_ choice that anyone in their right mind would make—they were all but ensuring their tribute's death. They could do nothing but get sponsors to send helpful or useless items to their tributes, slinging things in on white parachutes with little silver containers hanging from them. Choosing to stay on the sidelines simply because they did not want to die was just as bad as choosing to kill again.

There was no right answer.

Black and white and gray.

Snow asked all _volunteering_ mentors to step forward.

The auditorium was silent. Breaths were held. No one moved.

There was no right answer. There was only a stage with twenty-four old and young and shriveled and scared and scarred and broken people who had lost something they could never get back. There was only terror and hurt and the boy with the bread.

After a full minute, where it seemed no mentor could bear the horrors twice in their life, that no one would step forward, it happened.

The crowd roared in applause. Mentors turned their heads to the end of the line and stared with wide eyes. Haymitch ceased swaying drunkenly on his feet and stared with narrowed, hard eyes that raged with anger and glimmered with hope. The floating screens that had been showing President Snow from about twenty different angles flashed, changing to an image of a boy and a girl holding hands as they rode in on a chariot, burning like two fiery gods.

Katniss could not take it back.

One step forward was all it took to send her spiraling into insanity, murder, and the Games. One step and the thought of owing the Boy with the Bread...

"_Kat-niss! Kat-niss! Kat-niss!"_ the crowd chanted her name, all of them on their feet, shouting with enthusiasm and pride and excitement.

Everyone still remembered the Girl Who Was On Fire.

And again she gave them a reason to never forget.

…

Six out of twenty-four volunteered. _Six_. Six who were willing to risk their lives for the off-chance that they could drag their tribute to victory. Not even that. Some did it for the second chance at glory. Katniss would never understand. She could forgive those who didn't bother stepping forward because both of their tributes were already dead—like Jocce and Lennea from Five, or Woof and Cecilia from Eight—but what about Digs and Wash from Ten, whose female tribute was still alive? She contemplated fuming against Beetee, too, but one look at the older man made her reconsider. She didn't want to see him in the Games, really.

Whatever their reasons, whatever their choices, Haymitch was not one of those to step forward.

A part of Katniss raged at his selfishness, but the other part, the smarter part of her knew that he was making the right choice. Better that only one mentor per district ventured into the fray. Haymitch could still provide the lifeline to sponsors, and Katniss could work on saving their tribute.

But there was the hitch. She could only save _a_ tribute. One. Not both, even though both of District 12's were still alive—a rarity in and of itself. She still had to make a choice, still had to sacrifice. There could still only be one _true_ victor.

And the cold stone in her gut was telling her it wasn't going to be Madge.

"This changes things," Haymitch told her, as though she had shifted from mentor to tribute. Maybe she had.

"Observant," Katniss spit out sarcastically.

He ignored her quip as he usually did. "You're going in there—" his words elicited another caustic comment about his stating the obvious. "—and you're not fighting strangers anymore."

Katniss frowned. No, they weren't strangers anymore. She knew about the tributes now, not just from watching them over these past two days, but from stories shared from the mentors of these unfortunate children.

And that's when it hit her, just exactly what Haymitch was talking about. It wasn't the knowledge of whom the tributes were that fought for survival in the arena now... It was the _friendship_ that had developed over the years between the _Victors_.

The people going into the arena with her... they had become her _friends_. In some ways, they were more her family than her family was anymore. Oh, she would never stop loving Prim. Never stop feeling as though she had to do anything and everything to save her little sister. But Prim didn't understand. She didn't _know_ what it was like to go into the Games—Katniss had made damn sure of that. It wasn't as though this made them any less of sisters, any less important to one another. But it was a wall. A secret that Katniss couldn't share and certainly didn't want to. And yet, it was something she _needed_ to share. Something as big as the Hunger Games couldn't be kept inside, alone to fester.

Katniss could share that with the victors.

And now she was going to have to kill them. Because the terms were that two could leave the Games alive, but it was only one tribute, one mentor, one district. The brave souls who had followed her into the Games, had really followed her into death. And she was probably going to be the one dealing it.

Her eyes glanced over in Finnick's direction. Their gazes locked and they shared a moment. She had grown to like Finnick, enjoyed his company, even if she didn't enjoy his brazenness with sexuality and nudity. They had reached an understanding over the years and he had helped her to hold onto her sanity as the Capitol threatened to strip it from her.

In a lot of ways, they were the same, she and Finnick.

And just like that, with just one step forward apiece, they had become enemies. Finnick Odair was going in with her, but only one of them would be able to come out alive.

He smiled a sad, understanding smile, and blew her a small kiss accompanied by a wink.

She couldn't manage a smile in return, but she managed not to cry. Some days, that was all she could ask for. She looked away from Finnick and dared not look to the others. Johanna had chosen to go in, too, and while the two didn't share what would be deemed affection by any stretch, she had to grudgingly admire the woman. She had played her Game well. Seeder from Eleven caught her eye, but she looked away quickly. Everytime Katniss saw Seeder or Chaff the memory of that little girl from Eleven hit her and there was no time to think of that now. She did, however, take a minute to consider why it was that Seeder had stepped forward and not Chaff.

The last two were Gloss and Brutus, and Katniss didn't have to guess about their motives. Or about how eagerly they'd be to kill her and her tributes. There was no love shared between her and the former Careers. Their volunteering would be the easiest of the bunch, she decided, if only because it was easy enough to hate them.

Gritting her teeth, Katniss turned from the mentors-turned-tribute and looked back at Haymitch. He had a funny expression on his face, making her frown.

"Before you go in," he muttered—was that guilt in his voice?—tone low enough to reach only their listening ears. "I need to tell you..."

He glanced over at the others. Mentors becoming tributes again, and it was no secret that many were not doing it for altruistic reasons. There was more than one in that crowd that hated Katniss, whether because of _her_ or Haymitch, she couldn't tell and didn't care to ask.

Moot point, she figured.

"What is it, Haymitch? I don't exactly have a lot of time..." She would have precious few moments with Cinna to discuss necessary things and get her glammed up for her grand entrance into the arena. She didn't have time for Haymitch's drunken slurs.

"You going back in changes things."

"Pretty sure we've been over this," she countered in irritation.

Haymitch waved off her obvious annoyance. "Yes, but you should know... The reason Madge has lasted this long isn't dumb luck." His eyes glittered with mischief and danger. "It's strategy, and I can't guarantee she won't win with it in the end. So if you want your boy to get out of there alive, you'd better tell me now."

She stared at him, eyes a little wide. Really, she shouldn't have been surprised. Faking his drunkenness—he certainly looked sober _now—_and encouraging Madge to do everything she could to appear weak, useless, and doomed from the very start. Playing on Peeta's kindness and Katniss' pity... Haymitch had won his Game at an early age for a reason.

_Good people don't win the Games, sweetheart._

No, no they didn't. She and Haymitch were living proof. And her next choice could certainly confirm that. Because now they were once again in a position of sacrifices and deals. A place she had tried so hard to avoid... but maybe always ended up there in the end, regardless of her best intentions. Hadn't she made a deal with Haymitch for no more deals? Hadn't she made the choice to save Peeta even when the cost was sacrificing Madge? Wasn't she going into the Games again, knowing that she was going to have to kill everyone else still in there to get one—only _one—_boy out?

For all her good intentions and striving for honesty and some sort of honor, she was right back where she started. Katniss couldn't figure out if she wanted to kill or kiss Haymitch for keeping his end of her deal.

Now, the question became: did she make one more deal for one last sacrifice to save one last boy?

"Just make sure Peeta gets out alive," she breathed to Haymitch. "Cause if I make it out of there without him, _I'll_ kill _you_."

He nodded, because she meant it.


	21. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16: PUSHIN' PILLARS

She could remember clear as day standing in the underground hallway just like this one awaiting the moment when she would be plunged into the arena to face off against twenty-two strangers and her best friend. Her throat had been dry then, too, and she had tried drinking water, but it felt like chugging mud. Cinna had been there, waiting with her in that calm, almost mournful sort of way that Cinna always had about him.

He had been betting on her.

There was no Cinna here now. She stood alone, only Peacekeepers at the doors, and the cylinder she would have to step into in only a few more short moments.

Guess they decided she didn't need anyone holding her hand this time.

Back then she had been a terrified thirteen-year-old girl, with twin braids and knobbly knees, suffering from malnutrition. She was older now, changed. She was seventeen. Taller, stronger. Her body had filled out, her hair had gotten longer—just one braid instead of two—and food had been as readily available to her as any food ever was in Twelve.

She was still skinny, but no one would call her scrawny anymore. Gone were the knobbly knees, the hollow cheeks, the cracked lips. They had been replaced with empty eyes and a permanent frown.

She wasn't sure it had been a fair trade in the end.

The uniform Cinna had dressed her in for the arena wasn't like the one she had seen Peeta wearing before his departure. Peeta's had been designed for practicality, but Katniss had a feeling hers had been done for show.

And it was showing alright.

Her black pants were skin tight, tucked into the heavy brown leather boots that stopped mid-calf. They were comfy and not heels, she noted gratefully. They laced up and seemed pretty sturdy. Her top was a deep forest green with quarter sleeves and a heart-shaped neckline that accented what little cleavage her upper body could muster. It was tight at the waist and split off into three tails upon reaching her hips. The back of her shirt was open, held together only by a series of crisscrossing spindles of thin rope. A brown leather belt was secured around her waist and an arm-guard covered her left forearm.

They had made her to look like a huntress and the arm-guard was proof that no one had forgotten what her skill had been in the Games.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and prepared herself. This was it. Once again, there was no going back.

Absently, her hand went to the Mockingjay broach pinned upon her left breast. She stroked it until the Peacekeepers at her door came forward and nudged her into the cylinder.

…

Katniss was prepared for the darkness. The perpetual night of this year's Games had been a popular topic of discussion between her and Haymitch, her and the potential sponsors, her and pretty much everyone she had come into contact with. There hadn't been an arena like it to date.

Katniss was ready it.

So when her platform rose into the sky and she could see the heads of her fellow mentors coming up from the ground, she was surprised to find that it was bright as day. The wide expanse of green grass hedged by a darker green marking the treeline was more brilliant than anything she had seen before. The world was alive with color. Blue skies, popping greens, purple and pink wildflowers.

It was amazing.

It was with effort that she remembered the fifteen minute burst of daylight that the tributes had encountered just the day before. Was this on a timer? If it was, what sort of timer? Obviously it wasn't a daily thing. Maybe it was random? Would they just suddenly get bursts of daylight in the middle of the Games? Had the Game Makers decided to adjust the arena now that the rules had changed?

Katniss didn't have the answers. All she had were five fellow rising mentors, battle ready and undoubtedly as broken as she was. Her friends, her enemies, and the arena.

When they had cleared the cylindrical tubes completely, silence washed through the field. They stared at each other, watching and waiting, knowing that death lay at their feet should they jump into the fray too soon. The countdown began.

60 seconds.

Her legs twitched to run already. 59.

But she wouldn't, she couldn't. 58.

Because they had to wait. 57.

She couldn't die here, before things had even started. 56.

Because she had a mission. 55.

More noble than her last one. 54.

The one to merely survive. 53.

This time, she was in it for him. 52.

This time, she had to save Peeta. 51.

And she wouldn't let anyone stop her. 50.

Not Finnick, who loved Annie more than she thought anyone could love. 49.

Not Johanna, whose tribute was a tiny little redheaded girl. 48.

Not Brutus who had painted a target on her back. 47.

Not Madge who _had a strategy._ 46.

Not her own lingering doubts. 45.

Not the guilt. 44.

Not the twisted memories of Gale. 43.

She would do this right this time. 42.

She would bring Peeta home. 41.

Even if he went home alone. 40.

She breathed in the smell of sweet wildflowers. 39.

The woods beckoned her. 38.

They were the only home she'd ever truly known. 37.

They would be her strength here. 36.

They would ensure she was not useless to her tribute. 35.

Her limbs were almost eager. 34.

As though her body was alight with anticipation. 33.

Excitement. 32.

She felt sick. 31.

She couldn't want something as horrific as all this. 30.

But deep inside, she thought she did. 29.

She thought this horror—28—this massacre, is the only thing she was truly good at. 27.

And she would make good use of it. 26.

She would win for Peeta. 25.

Because Haymitch was right. 24.

Good people didn't win the Games. 23.

But she was not a good person. 22.

She could win. 21.

She could save the boy with the bread. 20.

She could bring someone home. 19.

She didn't mean to. 18.

But she caught Johanna's eye. 17.

Johanna was dangerous. 16.

Johanna was deadly. 15.

Johanna knew her tribute must die. 14.

To save Katniss'. 13.

Johanna knew, too. 12.

If she were a better person—11—she would let Johanna win. 10.

But she wasn't. 9.

Because she needed Peeta to go home. 8.

And the little girl was only twelve. 7.

But she had to die. 6.

She had to. 5.

And Johanna wouldn't let her. 4.

And Katniss wouldn't let Peeta. 3.

And there wasn't any point in trying. 2.

They'd both already lost.

1.

The canon sounded. She leapt from her plate and ran—she was faster than the others—to the treeline at her right. She had to find Peeta, and she prayed that she would never see the death of the little girl from Seven.

…

They were at a slight disadvantage. The Cornucopia was picked clean, not a weapon left. No food, no water, no supplies. The Careers and what few lucky souls had managed to snatch a couple precious morsels had made damn sure there was nothing left. They had intended to keep it from other tributes, not their mentors, but then, no one had anticipated the Quarter Quell twist.

They really should have.

Ultimately, it would have made only the slightest of differences to most. Now, they were _all_ tributes again, and only six mentors had taken the bold step to ally with just _one_ of their tributes.

Maybe it was better no one had known about the Quell in advance.

Katniss tried desperately not to shiver as the flashbacks threatened to engulf her. This time, things would be different. They had to be. She couldn't survive a repeat.

Despite their obvious handicap, the mentors had at least one thing going for them: they had watched the first forty-eight hours of the game. They knew who was still alive, who was dead. Who was allied—had even _set up_ said alliances—and who was working solo. Where their camps were, what their strategies were. But most importantly, they knew the arena.

No, these second time tributes wouldn't be so easily exterminated.

Because no matter what else, they had one more advantage. They had all already played the Games before.

Ignoring the dread threatening to drag her down into the depths of Hell, Katniss tried to strategize with what few precious moments she had left before entering the arena. There were no more weapons in the Cornucopia. So no point to linger. The others could fight it out hand-to-hand if they chose, but she was smaller than the rest. Her strengths lie in cleverness, speed, and a bow and arrow. None would do her much good here. Which meant the first course of action was flee. Running to the Career camp while it was still empty might be a solid plan, were it not for the strong likelihood that she wouldn't be the only one headed there.

The original tributes didn't know of their mentors' reentrance into the Games. Not yet, though they would find out soon enough. The Careers would be unsuspecting. They would also have all the supplies from the Cornucopia at their camp, loosely guarded at best.

Katniss very much doubted these facts had gone unnoticed by her fellow mentors.

So, she would have to be more clever. Think of a roundabout way to get supplies. She could survive in the forest as she had in her last Game, but last time her goal had been survival only. This time, her mission was different. Saving Peeta would require an offensive plan at the ready.

Although the Game's alteration allowed for both mentor and tribute the chance to survive, Katniss was not a fool. She understood the potential for this to backfire. Tributes sacrificing mentors... mentors sacrificing tributes... all for the sake of winning, of survival. Because Katniss knew that two people trying to survive was a lot harder than a single person or a large group. Two people became a hindrance, two people became a burden. Two people became their own weakness.

If that wasn't enough, tributes would now have to fight very specifically against the counterpart from their own district. Not everyone would have a mentor from their district there, putting them at a very serious disadvantage, but those who did would have to fight amongst themselves to earn their mentor's favor. Madge and Peeta were both still alive. Would they fight to win _her_ favor?

These facts made her face the possibility that Peeta and herself might not make it out alive. She had to plan for her own death—and Madge's—if only to ensure that Peeta didn't quickly follow her.

She wouldn't go down without a fight; it wasn't in her nature. But Peeta might, if he felt like the price would be Madge.

Silently she cursed him. Why did he have to love _her?_

…

Thankfully, Katniss had been paying very close attention to Peeta throughout the first forty-eight hours. It was her job, she reasoned, to keep an eye on him and monitor his progress as the Games progressed. Certainly, it had never occurred to her that she would need to know his exact location in order to _find_ him in the arena, but it would help her now. The last image she had seen of him was at the top of the cliff he had somehow managed to scale. It was by the ruins where Spencer had died. He had been trailing the dry riverbed as best he could, in search of water and hopefully food, and if his movements had been steady he would be a ways from there by now. Probably, he had taken shelter to rest—he hadn't been looking too good last she saw of him—which meant he was curled beneath a bush somewhere in the forest, somewhere north-easterly in the arena.

That meant Katniss had to head deeper into the forest at her right. There were hills and somewhat noticeable landmarks that she could recall, but the forest had been pretty regular from what she could tell. It wouldn't be easy to find him—the arena was more like a maze, really—especially in the dark. But she was a good huntress, and that included tracking. Peeta as her prey, she began her search, hoping to find him before any of the other mentors got some nasty ideas into their heads.

First, she put some major distance between herself and the other mentors.

Her biggest concern was Brutus and Gloss. Of the two, they would prove the most deadly as they had the first time around, and they seemed to have a particular interest in kicking her ass. Probably because of Marvel and Cato. That meant that Brutus was gunning for her. She had really been the only thing standing between Cato and victory three years ago.

After about an hour of running and dodging through the forest, she deemed herself far enough away to begin truly _hunting_. She glanced up at a sturdy looking tree and began her climb. With a higher vantage point, she could get a better grasp of where she was in the arena—and keep an eye out for anyone that might have been following.

She didn't think the two ex-Careers would ally together, but at the same time she wouldn't put it passed them. It was difficult to tell what the other mentors would do; this was an unprecedented situation. But if she had to pair up the mentors in alliances, she could see Brutus and Gloss together. Finnick and Johanna had always had a sort of weird relationship, but they were close, so they might also be allied. And Seeder was a wildcard. She could go either way, and Katniss wasn't sure which would be better for her and Peeta in the end.

Finding a solid branch to hold her weight, Katniss took a sitting position and began looking around.

Maybe she should have taken the time to talk to them before entering the arena. That would have been the smart thing to do, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Talking to Finnick about joining forces only so they could stab each other in the back... No. She would do this alone. She didn't need anymore friends dying because of her.

In the distance, she thought she spotted it. That little dip in the treetops that suggested there were no trees at all. As though they just dropped off... Like into a basin.

Glancing down to make sure no one was there, Katniss quietly scaled back down, keeping in mind her general direction.

She had to find Peeta.


	22. INTERMISSION 6

_A/N: This is a flashback of Katniss' original wait at the beginning of her Games. It's set up like the last chapter's. I know it's super short and everyone really wants more to the current story, but I've been crazy swamped this year, so I'm slowly trying to get back into the story._

_And, I owe you guys a prize story of Katniss' reaping! Which I will try to get to soon. Thanks to all you readers out there!_

FLASHBACK: 60 Seconds

I was trying not to shake. 60.

I tried to breathe evenly. 59.

But I was scared. 58.

Of the Cornucopia laid out before me. 57.

Of the metal plate beneath my feet. 56.

Of the explosives beneath that. 55.

Of the other tributes surrounding me. 54.

So much bigger than I. 53.

Except for the little girl. 52.

The one from Eleven. 51.

The one like Prim. 50.

I glanced at her. 49.

She looked scared, too. 48.

I didn't want to think about her. 47.

What was going to happen to her. 46.

What was going to happen to me. 45.

Who would take care of Prim? 44.

When I was gone. 43.

Because Gale was here. 42.

Here with me. 41.

I glanced at him. 40.

His eyes met mine. 39.

He was stronger than I was. 38.

Clever. 37.

Quick. 36.

He could make it. 35.

Not like me. 34.

I was dead. 33.

But he smiled at me. 32.

We were partners. 31.

He wouldn't let the others hurt me. 30.

It would never change between us. 29.

He had said so. 28.

In the interview. 27.

With Ceasar. 26.

The one where he announced it. 25.

To all of Panem. 24.

He promised me. 23.

He meant it. 22.

I could trust Gale. 21.

I could trust him to go home. 20.

If I couldn't. 19.

He was better than I was. 18.

He could take care of Prim. 17.

I didn't know what I felt. 16.

Not beyond the wake of fear. 15.

But I knew I could trust him. 14.

He was the only one I could still trust. 13.

His gray eyes promised me I could. 12.

_He promised me I could._ 11.

We were allies. 10.

We would find a bow. 9.

Arrows. 8.

We would fight. 7.

Because we were hunters. 6.

Not prey. 5.

We wouldn't go down so easily. 4.

We would make them shake. 3.

In fear. 2.

In dread. 1.

_We would win._


	23. Chapter 17

A/N: So... Since I updated a really short, sad, pathetic little intermission chapter, I thought I would reward you all with a full length action-packed (sorta) much longer chapter! Yay! Enjoy and I really appreciate all of you that are still reading. :)

CHAPTER : WHEN SAMSON SAW DELILAH

When the brilliance of light had finally passed, Peeta blinked in the returned darkness, attempting to readjust. They were maybe half-way through the third day in the arena. Their mentors had joined into the fray sometime earlier that day—probably morning—and they had since encountered two bright bursts of daylight and absolutely no rain.

Peeta had been moving since he had risen that morning. Headed in what was possibly the stupidest direction anyone could think of: towards the Cornucopia. It would be empty, he assured himself. Empty and none of the mentors would have stayed and obviously the tributes had all long since left... Right? But if he were going to believe his own reasoning, then he had to ask: why was he going in the first place? If there was nothing there, what was the point?

He adjusted the ax gripped in his hand.

Because he had to see if she was there. If any of the mentors had already... If her... if her body was... He shook his head violently and trudged forward.

Maybe he was wrong, Peeta reasoned. Maybe Katniss wasn't one of those six mentors who had chosen to rejoin the bloody mayhem of the Games. Because Peeta could remember the broken girl who had returned to Twelve four years ago. She had been so traumatized... surely she wouldn't choose to go in again. Not after the first time.

Yes, he decided. She would have made the smart choice and stayed back at the Capitol to watch him die. It was the only decision that made any sense, right?

Grasping on to this hope, he convinced himself that his instincts were wrong, that Katniss wasn't here, and that she wouldn't be one of the obstacles standing in his way to get home. There were enough of those already. Madge, for instance. With already one of his friends in the arena with him, there was no way that Katniss would choose to put herself in a position where she would have to face off against him.

Even she wasn't that bitter.

He pushed forward for another hour, before he finally had to stop and rest. Slouching down on a rock in the darkness, he laid his ax across his knees and took slow lungfuls of air, trying to ignore that rough edge in the back of his throat that reminded him he was thirsty. The eerie silence of the wood surrounded him, mocking him with softness and timidness. He didn't like how quiet it was, but he admitted to himself that it was good. It would let him listen for unwanted guests. Even a slight rustling of trees would tip him off or a—

The loud yell of a boy to his left startled Peeta up from his rock, ax at the ready, but it wasn't in time to stop the large, burly boy from One from slamming into him hard enough to knock the wind out of Peeta. Together, they tumbled to the ground, Peeta's ax slipping away into the darkness. There was the sound of more rustling in the brush, then Peeta heard the swing of his ax through the air and the ting as it hit a rock not a foot from his head.

"Hold him still, Pharon!" a girl's voice called out.

Pharon's grip tightened as Peeta continued to attempt struggling and wriggling away.

The third flash of light in a single day was what gave Peeta the chance to get out from under Pharon and roll away before the girl could behead him with his own ax. He rolled a few feet, before trying to scramble awkwardly to his feet, hoping to adjust his eyes somehow to the light before his opponents could. Squinting and blinking rapidly, he tried, but could only blearily make out his surroundings, much less Pharon or whoever the girl was. A dark shape dropped from his right, making him shift quickly to face it, but whoever it was didn't seem to be on the Career's side. The figure darted at the girl, not Peeta, and took him down to the ground within seconds. The larger, bulkier figure of Pharon looked to be doing about as well as Peeta, stumbling around in the light, swinging at the air with big burly fists. Peeta tried to take advantage of the boy's disorientation—his eyesight seemed to be getting better—and charge Pharon, but the whistle of an arrow landing in the dirt right before his feet stopped him.

Now that he knew there was a bow out there—he tried not to think it was Katniss—he could make out the strange twang of a bow being pulled taught and realized whoever was shooting at him was aiming again, and if his vastly improved eyesight was any indication, they had a lot better chance of hitting him this time. And to make matters worse, Pharon had decided to take Peeta's idea. He was charging.

But not towards Peeta.

Everything moved very fast and very slow all at once and then...

All he heard was the scream of his name. _Katniss_' scream. He turned toward it within seconds, but it was too late. It was in time only to see her fall to her knees, an arrow tip sticking through her back, blood trickling down her skin and soaking her shirt. His feet seemed to be moving in slow motion as he tried with all his might to reach her. But even as he moved to reach her, she was still fighting. A make-shift bow raised, arrow poised, she was ready. She released it into the oncoming attacker, the large, burnt-skinned boy with buzz-cut black hair from One. It made it's mark, hitting squarely in the chest cavity where blood spurted—from the wound, from his mouth, from his _heart—_but he didn't stop. His momentum had propelled him forward to land with a red frothy mouth and wild eyes on top of Katniss.

A cannon sounded in the distance. Then another.

_No_, Peeta thought so frantically, he thought his own heart might burst. _Not Katniss_.

His knees crushed the dry bed beneath them as he skidded to a stop before the heap of body mass. With shaking hands he pushed the brute off of her.

One's eyes were still wide, but no breath came through his chest. He was dead, a carved wooden arrow sticking out of him, and Peeta could now explain only one cannon. He couldn't help the panic that told him to turn to Katniss—she wasn't supposed to _be here_. She lay unmoving in the dirt, face smeared with it and spatters of blood. Peeta's hands fluttered uncertainly, afraid to touch her, finally settling on her face.

"Katniss?" he whispered.

He stared at her, willing her to open her eyes, but she just wouldn't. Moving his hands down, he found the arrow lodged in her chest, below her ribcage. It was some kind of shiny silvery metal, obviously from the Cornucopia, while Katniss had probably made the one gripped in her hand. What was he supposed to do? There were no answers here in the arena. So he gripped the shaft of the arrow and—

"Wotchit, kid."

Her voice was so sudden, so relieving, that he thought he might whoop and holler with joy. She was alive, the second cannon wasn't for her. Later that night he could figure out who it belonged to, but now, in this moment, Katniss was alive and breathing and calling him kid and...

"I thought you were dead," Peeta mumbled hoarsely.

Grunting, Katniss adjusted her body stiffly into a sitting position, ignoring Peeta's attempts to help. "Take a little more than One's tribute _falling_ on me," she muttered, giving the dead boy a dirty look. "He's not _that_ big."

"How about an arrow?" he offered.

She shot him a dark look before nodding. "Yeah, almost. That might do it."

He swallowed; she ignored his nerves.

"Where's the shooter?" she got out, breathing heavily.

Peeta glanced up quickly into the tree where the arrow had come from, but he couldn't see anything, anyone. "I don't see anyone," he told her. "Why would they run?"

Katniss didn't answer immediately, instead trying to get up. When that ended with a tight wince and her teeth grinding against each other, she stopped and rested again. "Maybe whoever it was didn't like seeing Pharon go down like that."

The answer didn't satisfy either of them, but they didn't have any other answers. Short of someone not wanting to actually kill Katniss or Peeta, there was no point in running when they were both caught off guard. And with Pharon dead, whoever was in that tree would have had a better chance than ever. Nothing in this Game was making sense.

Katniss moved again, winced. "Decision time," she warned him, breathing labored.

But Peeta wasn't quite following her. The way her mind worked never seemed to be in line with his. There were these differences... Her resourcefulness and his general gullibility seemed to keep them in separate parts of the world.

Except they were both in the arena now.

"Yeah, where to camp," he said, looking around the general vicinity. "They won't want to wait for long to take up the dead. And we're going to lose this damn daylight soon."

Katniss just stared at him. Apparently, not what she was referring to. So, she did what she normally did when she thought Peeta was oblivious to something blatantly evident. She ignored him and continued on with her version of the conversation.

Maybe she had spent too much time with Haymitch.

"I'm injured. Badly. There's no guarantee that I'll—"

He stopped her before she could even finish. "You'll be fine. We'll patch you up and you'll be fine."

She would have argued. It was plain on her face that she would and, in fact, _wanted_ very much to argue with him, but time was not on their side. The hovercraft was there already. To claim the dead. A silent moment passed as they watched the claw descend and pick up the boy with an arrow through his heart. Neither had liked him. As a Career, few would have. But somewhere out there, he had a family. A mother, a father, _someone_ watching his death on screen, weeping for the one who would never return.

The one who lost to Katniss.

And then the time for argument had passed. Day three was waning, their sporadic light was disappearing, and the rustling of the bushes was getting uncomfortably close. They needed to move and Katniss didn't have the time to convince Peeta to do it without her.

So when he picked her up in his arms, she didn't protest and hid the whimper that threatened to escape at the jostling of her wound.

For the time being, they were still a team.

…

Somewhere along the way, Katniss had passed out and the rain that was both their salvation and a major pain began once again, leaving Peeta to fetter out what to do. He had her in his arms, losing blood, an arrow sticking through her middle. Seven tributes and probably all five mentors notified of their most recent location. And what looked to be a very nasty storm brewing on the horizon.

The odds were most definitely _not_ in his favor.

Deciding he couldn't help Katniss until he moved them both to a relatively safe place, he moved out in search of shelter. Katniss would have found a tree to climb, strapped herself in and waited the whole thing out. Even if Peeta could climb a tree—which he couldn't, apparently not even to save his _or_ her life—it wouldn't help any now. He couldn't treat Katniss' wound in a _tree_.

He was realizing quickly that he was not Katniss and it would be much more difficult to keep her alive.

…

It took precious time to find it again. Rain had soaked him through, and despite his best efforts, the unconscious Katniss in his arms wasn't much drier. His bearings were off, everything looked the same, and he still couldn't really _see_. He hated this arena. But after a time, he found it. The cliff that dropped off sharply, steep pathways leading down into the valley below.

The ruins where he had stayed with Spencer were still hidden in the large grouping of trees in the valley near the cliff that would be a waterfall during the rains. Although an obvious location—as obvious as anything could be in constant night—the trees provided some cover and the ruins themselves were laid out like a maze. If he moved them in far enough, no one would immediately uncover their location. For the time being, it would have to be good enough. The storm was already pouring down relentlessly and the pair of them were soaked to the bone. They needed to stop somewhere.

All he had to do was get her down there...

Almost immediately he knew he wouldn't be able to carry her down. He was going to need the use of his hands. So he knelt down and placed her legs on the ground, still cradling her upper body in his arms.

"Katniss," he tried.

Nothing.

"Katniss, you need to wake up." But she wasn't listening. Unconsciousness was in full swing and he didn't think he could wake her any time soon. He prayed the arrow hadn't been poisoned. He would have to think of something on his own.

Trying not to let frustration overtake him, he laid her down the rest of the way onto the forest floor carefully, mindful of the tip of the arrow sticking out of her back. He was going to have to take a risk here, he realized. Somehow, he had to carry her down that narrow path, but he still needed the use of his hands. Bridal style was definitely out and he didn't think throwing her over his shoulder like a bag of flour was a good idea either.

Instead, he took off his belt and put it off to the side. He did the same with hers. Taking her right arm, he slung it around his shoulder and began to slowly lift her up, angling her body so that her chest pressed against his back. Mindful of the arrow shaft sticking out of her middle, he brought her left arm around the other side of his shoulder until her hands met in the middle at his neck. Once there, he grabbed her belt and tied her hands together. Then he used his belt to tie them together around the middle. It wasn't ideal, but it would keep her from slipping off while he tried to get them down the cliff and into the relative safety of the ruins in the basin.

"Just stay with me," he muttered, hoping some part of her was listening. "Stay with me."

…

She had been out for several hours. Peeta took the extra time to wind his way through the old ruins, hoping to hide them from the world outside—rain and people alike. It was a valid waste of time, but still a waste. He should have been treating Katniss.

Except that he didn't know what to do.

He forced rain water into her, hoping he wasn't going to make her choke, and tried to keep her warm. The arrow still poked out of her middle, making her look unreal, like a doll that was broken. He had no idea what to do about that. Was he supposed to pull it out? Weren't you not supposed to do that? Didn't it cause more bleeding? But leaving it in couldn't be good either, right? Maybe if he could staunch the blood flow...

When Katniss finally opened her eyes, he thought it was a miracle.

She tried to say something, but her words were too low to hear. He crouched down beside her, moving damp hair away from her face. She coughed, clearing her rough throat, and tried again. "Peeta," she rasped. "How long have I been out."

He swallowed and held back the laugh that bubbled up from his throat. He was just so happy she was _alive_ and _awake_. "I don't know for sure. A while."

Katniss nodded her head and glanced at their surroundings. "The ruins."

"You know about them?" he asked, surprised.

She arched an eyebrow at him. "I have been paying attention, you know."

Of course. She had been watching the Games since he entered them. All of the mentors would know where he had spent his short-lived alliance with Spencer. Anxiety hit him. What if they could find this place easily then? What if they had figured out that Katniss was injured and this was where Peeta would have taken her? What if they were searching the ruins as he and Katniss sat here now...?

Valid though his concerns might have been, mixed with a healthy dose of paranoia, Katniss gave him something else to worry about. Shifting from her spot against the stone wall, she winced. Glancing down at the arrow in her side, she gingerly touched it with her hand.

"Shit."

Immediately Peeta's concerns turned to her. "Are you okay? How do you feel?"

An arrow was sticking out of her, how did he _think_ she was feeling?

Katniss assessed the damage. "I don't think I punctured a lung, but it was close. And even if I didn't, there is definitely damage." She looked up at him, and tilted her head to the side, thinking something over in her head. "Serious damage. The kind of damage that makes me a hindrance instead of a help to you."

Ah, back to the decision.

Well, Peeta had already made his. Nothing she could say to him would change that. _Nothing_. Maybe she didn't understand the futility, because she insisted still.

"Even if I survive—"

"You will," Peeta told her without hesitance, almost nonchalant about the entire thing.

Katniss' face flushed with irritation, even anger. But it didn't last long. She had been getting steadily paler since leaving the clearing. She had lost a lot of blood...

"Even if I survive," she pushed. "I will slow you down."

He continued to ignore her, checking through what meager supplies they had swiped from the pack of District One. Bandages were not to be found.

"So decide now," she demanded harshly. "Risk partnering with me or... leave me here as I am." There was something in her tone that suggested she meant more than just _leaving_ her there _as she was_. "I won't hold it against you either way."

Finally, he forced his blue eyes to look up at her. Face pale, strands of her smooth, deep brown hair sweeping her face as they fell from the braid that slid down her back. Grit and grime covered her face, blood smearing tracks down her cheeks. Her lips were pulled into thin lines as she forced them together harshly. Her gray eyes glinted with determination and heat and fire and Peeta remembered her burning debut in her first Hunger Games. The fire glinting off her black suit, setting her face alight in blazing, immortalized glory. The cries of the crowd at the capital, screaming her name.

The girl who was on fire.

"We're both already here," he said in way of answer. He couldn't tell her, couldn't say the truth that was all but begging to pour from his heart. Not now. Not after Gale. "Tell me what to do."

Katniss stared at him, hard, looking for some hesitation, some chink, some moment of uncertainty that would tell her that his answer was to be disregarded and that she must continue again in her attempt to push him from her. After several long moments, she still found none.

"Take out your knife," she ordered.

Peeta hesitated, mistrust clearly in his face. He didn't believe she wouldn't do something foolish—like kill herself.

Rolling her eyes in irritation, she pushed. "_Take out your knife._ We're going to need to cut away my shirt."

The process was slow at best, incredibly painful at worst. Any sort of movement seemed to move the arrow the wrong way and tear at the wound farther, ripping open any clots that might have been slowing the bloodflow. Finally, Katniss told him to stop.

"Enough," she breathed through gritted teeth. "Obviously, we're going to have to get the arrow out first."

She looked like she might have paled at the idea, but it was impossible to tell. Her face was all but translucent. Whether it disconcerted her or not, it sure as hell terrified Peeta. He knew it was his job to get it out, and he knew how much it was going to hurt.

"I— What should, I mean, how—" He didn't even know what questions to ask. "This is going to hurt."

Katniss managed a lift of her lips that might have been a smirk, but dropped it quickly having decided it was too much effort. "You're going to have to find the exit wound."

Simple enough. "That would be where the arrow is sticking out of your back, right?" Peeta asked sarcastically.

She didn't even bother glaring at him and it made him nervous. At least if she had the energy to be pissed at him, then he could believe that everything would be fine.

He did as told, sliding his hand around her waist to her back, suddenly a lot closer to her than he had ever been before. What he would give for it to be a different moment, a different reason to have his face only inches from hers... But the moment was what it was. He busied himself with finding the protruding end of the arrow. The sharp tip was covered in a metal spearhead. With a sickening feeling, he realized that the arrow tip was not going to come back as easily as it had gone in. He was going to have to tear flesh to pull it back out...

"Break off the tip," Katniss told him, ragged breathing hot on his face. "As close to the wound as you can."

He tried to do as he was told with some difficulty. These weren't half-assed, haphazardly put together arrows. They were from the Capitol, sturdy and designed for the Games, which meant they were made to kill. One hand on the shaft as close to her back as he dared, the other gripping the tip of the arrow, he tried to bend the two halves in opposite directions. Katniss winced, making a short tortured sound, but she didn't tell him to stop.

"Sorry," he whispered so quietly that she wouldn't have heard him if his lips hadn't been right beside her ear. "Sorry. Sorry."

He said it every time she winced, all the while still trying to break the arrowhead off. After several long minutes, Katniss let out a cry, pushing her head forward to muffle it in Peeta's shoulder.

"Katniss, I'm sorry," he said again, stopping his attempts. "Whatever this is, it isn't wood and it isn't going to break."

She kept her head against his shoulder, breathing in and out as steadily as she could. He let her rest, his hand moving from the arrowhead to lay flat against the wall for balance, his other remaining at her back. When she had regained her composure, she pulled away, looking him in the eye.

"New plan," she told him hoarsely. "You're just going to pull the shaft out."

This sounded like about as good a plan as the _first_ one, but he nodded anyway and she bent her head forward again for a moment. "Ready?" he whispered.

Her whole body tensed, but she pulled back and smiled weakly at him. "Do it."

Gritting his teeth—because he knew this was going to hurt worse than just trying to break off that damn tip—he put his left hand flat on her stomach around the entry wound and the other gripped the arrow sticking out of her. She didn't even get the chance to tell him to do it fast before he yanked harsh and quick. Katniss cried out in pain, her voice echoing against the walls of the ruins. The arrow broke loose with a sickening sound that would probably resurface in his nightmares. She slumped back against the wall, exhausted.

She passed out as he was pressing his hand against the now open and bleeding wound.

…

A/N: Okay, so I had a couple of problems with the arrow scene. Ultimately, I took some liberties here and there and if it's not realistic enough, well... if anyone's had to pull a metal arrow out of someone else, feel free to let me know how it really goes lol. (Actually, I really hope none of you have ever had to do something like that. O.O)


	24. Chapter 18

_A/N: Okay, it has been waaaaaaay too long since I've worked on this. I've been going back and re-reading some of the previous chapters to figure out whose already dead, who went into the arena, who's allied with whom... It's insane and I don't know how I kept it all straight before! Anyway, I'll give you a current count at the end of this chapter in the A/N of how many tributes/mentors are still alive in the arena. If anyone out there has a better count, please, save me and let me know who's still left. T_T_

CHAPTER 17: ON SAMSON'S MIND

Katniss was still unconscious, bandaged from a shredded piece of Peeta's shirt and recovering from the wound in her side, when the anthem played. Peeta forced himself to leave her side to go out to the opening of the ruins and watch the cloudy night sky, briefly illuminated by the seal of Panem.

The boy from One, Pharon, appeared first. His hulking form seeming even larger as the glowing projection taking up the sky. Next came the girl from Two. She must have been the one who tried to behead Peeta while Pharon was holding him down. He couldn't remember her name and didn't care to right in that moment. Katniss must have killed her, he realized, and the part that needed to believe Katniss was a good person decided it had been in self defense.

A third image appeared in the sky, though Peeta hadn't recalled a third cannon. It must have happened sometime during the freak rainstorm that was still pouring down overhead. It was the boy from ten.

After a moment, the sky flickered back to blackness and rain. Peeta took a moment to fill his makeshift water container and headed back to Katniss. Three dead today—he supposed that was good considering today was the day the Mentors were added into the fray. He would have expected more from those who had already proved themselves as dangerous.

He didn't know which had decided to return—an astonishing _six_ of them—but he could guess that there was at least one ex-career in the mix. And that was something worth shuddering about.

When he reached Katniss, he knelt down and checked to make sure she was still breathing, before he slumped against the wall beside her. He wouldn't sleep, he decided. Not with Katniss unconscious and their location probably known to every mentor in the arena—and whoever had killed Spencer.

No, he would stay up and wait and stroke the dark hair from Katniss' face, because he doubted he would ever get another chance to do it.

…

Peeta's eyes snapped open as a crack of thunder that could have been a canon sounded through the air, echoing eerily off the ruined walls. His heart raced and he glanced down at Katniss—was she paler than before?—checking for signs of breath. She was fine. As fine as she could be with that wound. He leaned over her and as carefully as he could, lifted the torn fabric that covered the injury. It was sticky and wet, the trauma beneath oozing clear liquid. He couldn't tell if that was a good sign or not. Did clear liquid mean it was healing? That it was trying to scab over or staunch the blood flow or... something? Or was it a sign of infection.

Silently, Peeta cursed himself for not knowing something about this. He tore off his other sleeve and used it as the new bandage. Using the same strip of cloth from his lower shirt, he secured it as best he could. If it hurt, Katniss showed no sign of it. She didn't even stir. If it weren't for the steady, slow breaths she took, he would have thought she was...

Closing his eyes against the thought, he leaned back against the wall. He had fallen asleep. He couldn't do that again. It didn't matter how tired he was, he needed to stay awake, alert. Well, as alert as his tired mind could be.

"Why are you here, Katniss?" he mumbled to the darkness. "What did you think you were doing?"

Peeta wasn't so naïve as to think that this was about him. That the scant few days he had had with her in the Capitol had been enough to win her over to feeling the intense love he had felt for her since they were schoolyard children. It was too much to even hope that her volunteering had been an effort to save him.

But hope he did. And it was a terrifying kind of hope, because if that was her reasoning, then he would never be able to stop her from dying for him. Katniss wasn't one to lose in any endeavor she strove for.

He remembered her words from only a few days ago. _"There are no friends in the Games."_ Maybe she had gotten it into her head that, somehow, if he never considered her a friend, he wouldn't mourn her loss. Had Katniss _known_ about the Quarter Quell twist when she had said that? When they'd spoken, he had been so focused on his own impending doom that he hadn't taken the time to look at hers. Though maybe he should have.

The recollection was sharp, as though he had lived it himself. Prim's name being called at the Reaping. Katniss' little sister only a year younger than Katniss herself. Then Katniss stepping up to volunteer before Prim even reached the stage. They had both been so young... Then the name that surely she dreaded most after her sister's being called: Gale Hawthorne. It was no secret the closeness that spread between them. No secret the hours they spent hunting—illegally—in the woods.

No secret that surely they must be in love, despite Katniss' youth.

But love does not stop the Games. It doesn't give you reprieve or immunity. The Games will never be canceled, never be stopped, and no tribute would ever be pardoned from the _honor_ that was mass-murder.

They burned together in the chariot, clasping their hands together and waving to the crowd as though this were a parade, not a montage of impending death. They seemed ablaze with excitement and power. The crowd roared in applause, screaming their names—_Katniss'_ name.

And then there was the interview. Just a tiny little girl in a bejeweled red dress, Katniss' almost frivolous, yet intoxicating charm opened the audience's hearts and surely earned her sponsors. But it was her last words that had moved Peeta most.

"_Her name's Prim. She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."_

Anyone who had ever witnessed Katniss with her little sister would know it was true. They were only a year apart, but Katniss had become a lifeline to her family long before the Games had ever made her Victor.

"_What did she say to you? After the reaping?"_ Caesar had asked.

"_She asked me to try really hard to win."_ Katniss' eyes had been the size of saucers, her emotions for once on display for the world to see. There was her innocence. There was the scared little girl who had done the only thing she could to save that which was most important to her.

Peeta had thought she might cry right then. Prim alone could bring the girl to tears.

"_And what did you say?"_ Caesar prompted gently.

You could tell by the silence of the audience that they were waiting with baited breaths for her answer. That she had hooked them with her story, her courage, the way only Katniss could. The dress had grabbed their attention; Katniss had held it. And you could tell by the harsh expression on her face, that she had no idea. She was lost somewhere in her memories of Prim and District Twelve and what she would have to do to get back to them.

"_I swore I would."_

If you have never seen a thirteen-year-old girl have the face of a battle-hardened veteran, then count yourself lucky. It was horrifying in a way that came only with the Games.

She had sworn to come back to Prim.

Peeta knew it was true. But even he couldn't have guessed what it was she would have to do in the end.

When Gale took the stage after her, he was an immediate favorite. Fifteen-years-old, tall, tanned, and handsome, he won them with looks where Katniss had won them through sheer force of personality.

When he took his seat next to Caesar, there was a stir of giggles from the crowd, but no one could have guessed what he would do on that stage. He could have talked about his family. His little brothers, Rory and Vick, or his only sister, Posy, or his mother Hazelle. How his father had been lost in the mines, just like Katniss'. He could have talked about the determination he had to get home, how hard he would fight. Hell, he could have gone up there and just smiled the entire time, making Capitol girls swoon and cheer for nothing more than a pretty face. It had been done before.

But he didn't do any of that.

When Gale sat next to Flickerman he didn't smile, he didn't laugh, he didn't try to win everyone over.

All he said was this: _"I'm in love with Katniss Everdeen and I always will be."_

The crowd loved him.

In the arena, the two were automatically allies. From the moment they jumped from their pedestals at the Cornucopia, it was obvious they were already working as a team, their movements planned. Katniss had stolen a bright backpack before the area was picked clean, while Gale had gone for the gold: a bow and arrow placed like temptation atop the mound of prizes at the golden horn. Although he reached the bow and quiver of arrows, he wouldn't have made it out alive if Katniss hadn't lodged the blade of a knife in the throat of the female tribute from District Three.

The Games had only just begun and already they were working as a familiar team. And Katniss already had her first kill.

Instead of following a plan of mere survival, they went on the offensive. Peeta knew without knowing that it was Gale's strategy. Katniss never would have chosen to go hunting—not like that. But she went along with it just the same. The two of them weren't Careers and never could be, but they weren't pushovers either. They wouldn't be like the other tributes from District Twelve.

It was obvious to everyone who was watching—all of Panem—that they had worked closely together for years prior to the Games. Their movements were sure and confident. Each knew what the other was doing without needing to check to make sure or to ask. It was simply ingrained in their minds after so much time spent with one another.

Hunting came easily to them both, though Katniss was clearly the better shot. Gale instead brought skill with snares and traps. These were traits used and honed from hunting, survival. But they weren't using them just on wild game anymore. This wasn't about putting food on the tables of their starving families or in the bellies of their emaciated siblings.

This was about taking their futures in their own hands. And in the Games, that meant survival on a very different level. They weren't hunting rabbits or deer, they were hunting tributes.

Children.

And they were doing a damn fine job of it.

They had already picked off a few stragglers that came their way—like the female from District Eight, Jeraldina, who was stupid and desperate enough to set a fire on the second night, or Morash, the male tribute from District Ten who had the bad leg. That one might have been viewed as a mercy killing in the end—but ultimately, it was the Careers they were after.

Like the clever Deedin from Three who had been kept around to protect the spoils of the Cornucopia. One of Gale's traps made sure he went up in one of his own careful designs. They had found his leg a few feet from where he had been blown to pieces and the look on Katniss' face made it clear that she was both capable of making it to the end of the Games and that she was horrified by the fact.

Gale stared blankly for only a few seconds before grabbing Katniss and dragging her off into the woods. If Peeta had to guess at the boy's personality, he would have said heartless. But the way he looked at Katniss would have proved him wrong.

Rue was not part of Gale's plan. She was sweet, innocent, and so terribly small. A weak link for sure. Already Gale knew that only one tribute could become Victor and he wasn't planning on it being this little wasp of a girl. Katniss was the only one he planned on saving.

But Katniss wouldn't have any of it. Whatever she saw in that little girl was too powerful to ignore. She insisted on adding her to the alliance, despite any protests from Gale.

He couldn't say no.

But he could separate them. He could devise a plan that split the three of them up—and a good plan, too. One that had a high potential to succeed—and make sure there was enough space between the three of them to do the deed.

Katniss never knew what Gale was willing to sacrifice for his love.

When Katniss found the little girl, watched the spear enter her tiny chest, she saw only the boy from District One, Marvel as the murderer. Her arrow pierced his throat, spurting blood in a wide arch. For that kill, she felt no remorse and never would. But she never thought to ask how Marvel found little Rue, or whose trap it had been that scooped her up in that carefully woven net.

She never figured out that Gale had made sure that Katniss wouldn't have anyone to die for in the end.

They were standing only fifteen feet apart, Katniss at the edge of the forest, Gale at the edge of the pool. Nothing but grass between them. Tracker jacker venom still pumping strong in their veins, they aimed arrows at each other. Their hands shook, their vision blurred, their limbs threatening to buckle under the weight of the world.

A whispered no. Begging, pleading, tears, and hoarse cries. Hallucinations and reality all the same.

Gale pulled his arrow back stronger, ready to release. But it is Katniss who shoots first. It is her arrow that whips over the fifteen feet of grass to nick Gale Hawthorne in the neck. The nick is enough. He falls to the ground, weapon slack, and stares ahead with cloudy eyes that turn a deep shade of purple, before crumpling completely to the dirt.

Nightlock is a merciful death.

No one knows why she did not shoot him through the throat, the heart, the eye. Death blows. Whether it was the tracker jacker venom that threw off her aim or some regret in her heart that made her change trajectory when it was too late to stop the shot.

No one knows, and Katniss will not tell.

Peeta looked at the girl beside him. In sleep, she still looked like that scared little girl from Twelve whose only thought was to save her sister. "Why're you here?" he asked again. But only the sound of rain pelting their shelter responded.

…

_A/N: Okay! Living Count! We've got ten tributes left and six mentors! For the tributes we have the boy from Two, the boy and girl from Three, the boy from Four, the boy and girl from Seven, the girl from Ten, the boy from Eleven, and the boy and girl from Twelve (obviously). For the mentors, we have Katniss, Finnick, Johanna, Gloss, Brutus, and Seeder... I think that's right._

_Anyway, there you go! A synopsis of Katniss' Games! :) Aren't you glad I started updating again? XD Please let me know what you think (or if you've spotted any corrections that need to be made... I know I already have.)_


End file.
